


It's a Sin to Tell a Lie

by DeedeeLauren, JennFoozie4bz



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1950s Slang, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternative Universe - FBI, American Noir, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Brothels, Closeted Character, Crime Drama, Dark, Detective Noir, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male on male sex, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Murder Mystery, Ryden, Sex Worker, Smut, Sociopath, Thriller, Underground Clubs, lounge, whorehouse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-03-23 00:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeedeeLauren/pseuds/DeedeeLauren, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennFoozie4bz/pseuds/JennFoozie4bz
Summary: It's a sin to tell a lie. It's also a sin to steal, cheat, and kill.Officer/Deputy George Ryan Ross III has been polished with these "golden rules" during his Catholic upbringing in the 1950’s, while in the midst of a desolate West Texas town.Agent Brendon Urie is an FBI rookie in training. He's sent to the "middle of no-where" Texas on a case of dead barmaids."Be sure it's true when you say I love youIt's a sin to tell a lieMillions of hearts have been brokenJust because these words were spoken..."





	1. Life Could be a Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrie/gifts), [DeedeeLauren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeedeeLauren/gifts).



> Inspired by: The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, play written by Larry L. King and Peter Madterson; The Killer Inside Me, novel written by Jim Thompson, also film adaptation; ID Channel-A Crime to Remember.
> 
> Disclaimer: Fanfiction. The characters in this story do exist IRL, but these events never happened. Therefore, fiction.
> 
> This was created from a dare by @DeedeeLauren, thank you for your input, muses, beta, "directing," and suggestions this story. I couldn't have thought up this fiction with you and your encouragement. You'll always be my muse.
> 
> Thank you @calynell (Wattpad-Karma Police) for your advice on "those scenes" and your suggestions on the most difficult character for me to write: Brendon. 
> 
> And a grateful and heartfelt thank you to @VickiStafford, who keeps me from looking like an uneducated, hillbilly-redneck. Thank you for your willingness to step in and edit. You have been given the title-Grammar Guru.
> 
> *Also:  
> Ryan, you're not a wuss in this one. Brendon is gay, and very-"Brendon." Jon, sorry, not sorry. Call me! :D Kenny, you is talented! You is funny! You is fine! Dallon, you are my favorite tree. How's the lawn? Pete, please visit your barber. Joe and Patrick, I know who's really in charge. ;) Andy, bang away.
> 
> **To all the victims in this story. No hard feelings? Think of yourselves as sacrificial lambs for the gods of art, Ryden, and creative writing.

Padded feet in clown-pajamas, running down a wooden floor hallway. It’s lit by a Craftsman trimmed window at the end off the hall, casting a golden glow on the floor from the rising sun. The footsie clad feet turn left into a kitchen, where he heard the two women chatting over the banging of pots and pans. There is a slender woman, with light red hair standing at the farmhouse sink, her back to him, looking out the laced curtain kitchen window unto the dry plains and hills on the horizon outside. Upon hearing the child’s giggle, the woman turns and has a radiant, dimpled smile along with bright, sparkling brown eyes. She is still in her baby blue, short sleeved sateen pajamas; her hair set in pin curls and clips, with a sheer white scarf tied over them. Her “glamour” style makeup is already done; thin eyebrows, a healthy blush but smooth complexion, and rouge lips. She kneels down, with her arms reaching out, signaling the child to run to her. Dropping his teddy bear, another squeal escapes the light reddish-brown headed toddler while running into his mothers arms. Happy to be scooped up, held, and loved; belly laughing at the raspberries his mother plants on his cheeks.

“Ryan, honey, it’s too early for you to be awake! Gramma Anna and I are putting a pork roast in the oven for lunch after church. Do you wanna help Gramma with the green beans?” The woman coos happily.

“Gamma!” The little boy shrieks, his little legs and feet already moving before he’s set back down. He runs over to the dark wooden farmhouse table, placed near the wall and back door, the opposite side of the long hand crafted kitchen counter and window. There’s a blonde-grey haired woman with a bun, blue eyes, and the same dimpled smile is sitting; snapping beans. She is still in her pink house robe and slippers, a cup of coffee next to a bowl of green beans. A small bushel basket is next to her feet, where she is collecting the garden fresh vegetables. Ryan runs over to the basket, peering in. Gramma hands him a bean stalk, and he proceeds to snap one end off, then the other, while the unwanted pieces fall to the floor. He hands her the one bean stalk, beaming with pride. As he’s reaching for another, the older woman picks up the child and sets him in her lap. The boy is too busy popping the ends of his bean stalk to notice he’s been relocated, precariously dropping them beneath their chair onto the linoleum checkered floor.

“George Ryan Ross III! You’re making a mess.” His mother laughs as she stoops to pick up the discarded ends, and tossing them into the paint-chipped metal compost bin by the backdoor. The little boy holds up his freshly snapped bean to show her “his best job yet,”  before setting it into the bowl with the others. His Gramma hums quietly, kisses the back of his bed-hair head, she reaches for another stalk from the pile of freshly picked green beans that are placed on the mornings newspaper. Both content with their chore and company.

“Ok. You two look busy, so I’ll fry up some eggs, make some toast. Pork roast, carrots, and potatoes are in the oven. You’ll make your peach cobbler when we get home, Momma?”

Gramma Anna smiles to herself and nods her head; not taking her eyes off of her work. With both child and grandmother sitting side by side, you can notice the resemblance. Even in the manner of their work.

“Denise, I’m really happy that you and Ryan came home. It has been quiet these past few years since your Pa has been gone. The farm hands check on me, but it’s usually once a week and for a short time. I know your situation hasn’t been easy, and I’m sorry that you are a widow too. But I do love having you and Ryan here.” Gramma says sincerely, with tears glistening in her eyes.

“Oh Momma. I’m glad to _be_ home. I don’t have to worry about you, and you know I’m going to need a hand with this little one. George may not have left much, but this boy will be all I need.” Denise replies and she reaches over to ruffle Ryan’s hair more. She pats her mother lovingly on the shoulder before walking to the stove, lighting the pilot, and setting the cast iron skillet on the burner.

The basket of eggs she collected that morning from the coop is set on top of the wooden Knickerbocker icebox. There isn’t many, but just enough for the three of them; and with toast from the homemade bread, will be more than filling. They never wanted for anything, and always had what they needed. Denise’s parents had a quaint vegetable garden for their salads and side dishes, but her mother had trouble maintaining it by herself these last few years. With Denise there to water from the well, compost often for fertizler, it has flourished and provided. Their red meat and pork was always bought at Piggy Wiggly, owned by the Halls’ in town. The few acres they owned of land was leased to a neighboring farmer who grew cotton, one-third his profit belonging to them. This is the simple life that Denise had missed, and she hopes to instill the hard-working values her father raised her on to her son.

She places a plate of one fried egg and buttered toast in front of Ryan. He immediately drops his bean stalk and reaching for his fork. This emits a hearty laugh from his Gramma, and she switches him to her left knee; so she can use her right hand to eat her breakfast as well. Denise sets both of their plates down on the table too, smiling warmly at her boy and mother.

Denise sits down in a chair across the table from them, places a napkin in her lap and sighs. "Where those stories that Papa told us true? About the chickens and The Jackrabbit Ranch? Or was he just bumping gums?"

Gramma sits up straighter in her chair, takes a deep breath, and pauses to think. Little Ryan's unaware of the change in atmosphere while he achieves to get half of his breakfast in his mouth, the other half on his pajamas. "Some of the men thought it would be cheaper to take a chicken out to The Ranch instead of paying for ‘services.’ This was during The Depression, of course. Oh, but your Daddy was a smart man, though! He would charge thirty cents a chicken, just to buy them back the next morning for twenty.” The older woman chuckles. “I'm sure they kept a few of the chickens out there for meat and eggs. So, in his opinion, no one was getting hurt."

Denise, slowly pushes her plate aside and leans forward across the table to look directly at Ryan. "But someone has gotten hurt, haven't they Ryan? Someone has gotten themselves killed! Our young man is also smart like Papa, Momma. A downright Goddamn genius! He'll find out who the fucking murderer is."

The change in his mother’s tone terrifies Ryan. He notices in his peripheral vision that he is no longer a toddler, but a grown man with long, lanky arms in a long sleeved khaki button down shirt and pants. Patches along the shoulders, consisting of a star and bars, his uniform is finished with a black tie, gold star tie tack, polished black boots, and his revolver holstered unto his belt. The sudden change in his appearance shocks him, his hand growing numb, dropping the child-sized fork with a clang onto his yolked plate. Fumbling backwards off his grandmother's knee, tripping and knocking over the bushel of green beans, scattering them and himself across the black and white floor. He's attempting to stand up, when his mother appears kneeling in front of him. Her face a molten grey, her eyes are bloodshot and slightly bulging, and she is wheezing, having difficulty breathing. As he is kicking-crawling away to escape from her; violet bruises, shaped as hands, form around her throat, squeezing and crushing. Ryan is watching as she is strangled before his very eyes. She raises her hands to her neck, scratching as if trying to claw the invisible hands and arms away. Her eyes rolling back as she is looking up to the Heavens for help. Mouth open, but no noise escaping, not even breath. She looks like she is being pulled up by her neck, head lolling to the side, her arms fall limply.

"No! Mom!" Ryan yells. He is sitting up in his own bed; white, crisp sheets tangled around his legs. He’s no longer in his Gramma’s two story farmhouse, in the outskirts of Celene, Tx; but in his two bedroom rental in town. Cold sweat and tears rolling down his cheeks, caused by his hellish nightmare of his mother being murdered by unseen forces. He’s gasping for oxygen as if he was the one being choked.

Billy Holiday is crooning in the background, a magical yet haunting voice; accompanying his panting and sobs. A symphonic melody filling the room from his 1956 Zenith clock radio.

“ _Be sure it’s true when you say I love you_  
_It’s a sin to tell a lie_...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sh-Boom (Life Could Be a Dream) — Songwriters: James Keyes, Claude and Carl Feaster, Floyd F. McRae, and James Edwards.
> 
> It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie — Lyricist: Billy Mayhew.


	2. Deep in the Heart of Texas

I should've known this was going to happen, the nightmare; since I had witnessed my first dead body at the crime scene just the day before. A blonde woman. The beautiful Keltie Colleen who had moved to Celene 4 months before from Sweetwater, Texas. I had heard that she was a dancer at The Dallas Civic Ballet, until she injured her knee and was told to retire. What I don’t understand is why she moved here instead of back to her hometown. As pretty as she is, or was, with Dyess Air Force base just down the road, she would’ve had no trouble finding herself an officer ranked husband. Instead, she was working as a "barmaid" at Spencer's and living in one of the rented rooms above the renovated Victorian two story in the middle of nowhere Texas.

Celene really isn’t in the middle of nowhere, it is a small town town that many residents think it as obsolete. Right on the border of Hill Country, close to the “heart of Texas,” with West Texas looming at the backdoor, you really did have the best of both worlds. To the East; hills, green grass, where live oak, walnut, pecan, and cedar scatter the fields in the humid climate. Blue bells, and Indian paintbrushes grow wild along the roads and in the plains. If you don’t stop, you’ll eventually run into Austin, our state capital. Travel West a few miles and you will find drier lands, prickly pear cacti, yuccas, mesquite, and sage; keep going and you’ll end up in Mexico.

The best part about this town are the South Llano River and Fall Leaves Creek that feeds into Lake Celene. It’s not only irrigation for our farmers, but a refreshing relief from the scorching dog days of summer. If you head over there after dark, you’ll see the cars scattered along the shore, with teenagers necking. The worst part of my job is having to go down to the lake in a paddy wagon to break up the occasional party. It wasn’t that long ago that it was me running from the cops, so my mother wouldn’t be called to pick me up from the station. I’m sure I wouldn’t be working for them now if that had ever happened..

We may be small, but because of our perimeter to San Antonio, San Angelo, and Austin, we do get a lot of traffic from El Paso and New Mexico. There is our one cafe, called Pete’s Diner that is owned and operated by Peter Wentz. Painted white with turquoise trim on the outside to attract attention, and a neon sign. The inside has a modern feel with a checkerboard vinyl floor, a jukebox with blue and pink bubble lights, turquoise booths and boomerang, metal-banded, chrome tables inside. His father went on a mission to the Caribbeans for the Church of Christ and met his mother, so Pete is biracial. He grew up in here in Celene, just like I did. He worked at odd jobs during the summers; mechanic, roofer, car washes. He attended college in Chicago the rest of the year. It’s been a mystery how his parents could afford it, his father being a lawyer for a town that doesn’t prosecute one another. I’m not one to be nosy on things I don’t need to know. But it acknowledges our town is progressive for Pete to be an entrepreneur. Plus, he has the best pies in town.

Our grocery store here is The Piggly Wiggly, run by the Hall family ever since I could remember. Old Mr. Hall is nearing his retirement and has started training his only son, Zack. I went to school with Zack too. He’s one of those big guys that look mean and tough, but is actually soft hearted. He applied for Police Training School the same time I did, but didn’t qualify. Some have said it’s because of his weight. Others have said it’s because he couldn’t hurt a fly. I think it’s a little bit of both. Most of the time you can catch Zack at Pete’s Diner, being sweet on a pretty blonde waitress there named Brittany. Or he’s working in the back of the grocery store, carving up carcasses in the meat department.

Just like any town, we do have a public library. Though it’s a small, red bricked building, right next to our town’s school. There wasn’t enough funds for the city to build the school its own library, so this was the outcome. The head librarian is Ruby, a dark haired, curvy beauty with long eyelashes, emerald eyes, and glasses, of course. If you met her walking down the street, you wouldn’t know she is a librarian. Her pencil skirts fit just right and her blouses may have one button less than need be, but she makes it classy with her cardigans and tasteful makeup. Yes, she’s another woman that Gabe has tried to pursue. I don’t know what she said to him that day he wanted to “drop in and grab a book.” I didn’t know that he could read. I parked the Ford Mainline right in front of the glass door so I could watch this latest fiasco of Gabe’s. He sauntered up to the reference desk, leaned over, and proceeded to stare at her breasts while he talked to her. I don’t know what she whispered in his ear, but he came back to the car looking like a whipped puppy. He commented on how prude the girls in town are while I laughed hysterically at him.

Gabriel Saporta is my partner at work. He claims to be Italian, but I suspect he’s Hispanic. You never know with Gabe. Tall and lanky, like me. He’s always clowning around, always ready for a good time. He’s a ruthless flirt and hound with all the single women in town, but calls himself a ladies man. The reactions I see from women of Gabe is either annoyance or disgust. But who am I to burst his bubble? He is very smart when the moment calls for it. Those moments are sometimes few and far between.

When people say this is a one horse town, it’s not a lie. Our town vet, Dr. Helzer, has the one horse here, named Diablo. Ok, that may be an exaggeration, but we do have only one stoplight on Main Street. Fresh out of vet school in 1955, the town has prided ourselves with her being the first woman to have been admitted to the Texas A&M vet program. I can only guess at the inequality she had to endure, being the only woman. You will see her in overalls most of the time, I assume because dealing with cows, horses, sheep, goats, dogs, and cats can be messy and would need to have freedom of movement that’s impractical in a dress. When she would see patients and the owners inside her clinic, she will slip on her white doctors coat over those overalls. Bobbed blonde hair, she usually pulls it away from her face with a red bandanna. She has what a lot of the men would say, “the bluest eyes in Texas.” Most people in town will schedule an appointment with her for their pet, when in reality they were seeing her for themselves. The medical doctor in town, Dr. Miller, really needs to retire. He’s eighty-two, can’t see without his coke bottle glasses, and prescribes castor oil as a cure all for everything. Anyhow, she’s smart as a whip. Joe Trohman, the city’s Commissioner and my boss, trusts her on second opinions for death certificates; since Dr. Miller always lists “natural causes” on all of them. That is how most people die here, except for these recent events.

Gabe bragged that he, “got with her,” claiming they had sex on the surgical table in her clinics OR. He’s telling me this story in the truck ride over to the station this morning. I’ve never heard Nikki Helzer to be fast while we were all in school, so I’m sure he’s pulling my leg. “She ignores me half the time since that night anyways.” He whines.

“Maybe because of the course of antibiotics and rabies shots she had to take afterwards, Gabe?” I cut back. This is how we communicate, insults and sarcasm.

After I park my grandpa’s faded red and peeling truck, a 1939 International Harvester at the station’s parking lot, we head inside. Right after you pass the glass doors at the entrance, is the stations tall cherry wooden desk, where Carrie greets visitors to the station. "Greet" might be an embellishment of what Carrie actually does. She is the department’s secretary. Being the only woman in the office, I’m sure the job comes with it’s own challenges; one being Gabe Saporta. Most of the time I arrive for work, I will tell her good morning, while her response is a deathly glare. Gabe tries to butter up to her every day, sometimes with a “Good morning, beautiful,” or the occasional “How’s my doll this morning.” Her reaction can vary from an icy stare to ridicule and sarcasm. This morning being no different from the others.

“Good morning, Kitten. What’s got you purring today?” Carrie briefly looks up, spots Gabe, rolls her eyes and goes back to her work. He stops briefly in front of her, drumming his fingers on the tall counter. Carrie is doing a great act of ignoring him today. Eyes to the books, scribbling something down in the Supply ledger. She’s not flinching, not paying any attention to him at all. He gives up on his attempt, for now, and heads to the back of the station with me.

Carrie, our secretary is an enigma all of her own. Vibrant red and curly hair in a bun, with green eyes. We don’t know her last name, and she won’t tell anyone either. Gabe made a game of guessing what it is. He came to work and singsonged as he walked through the door, “Good morning, Ms. Ingalls.” Carrie picked up a metal ruler and swatted the back of his head, hard. He hasn’t tried to guess her last name again.

The rumor in town is that Carrie is a widower, the main reason the color of all her clothes and dresses are black. Her late husband died in an “accident,” six years ago, which Joe was called to. A week later, Carrie was sitting at the front counter, answering the telephone and typing Joe’s reports. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it seems it is only to Joe. I’ve been more than impressed with how she deals with Gabe, if there is a proper way to handle him. All of us here at the station have learned that she will not put up with our male chauvinism or gender stereotyping. Gabe still finds a way to insinuate something inappropriate into conversation just to piss her off. He may think it’s flirting, but I see it as courting death. My mother has mentioned that Carrie buys eggs from her, and they have coffee together on occasion. I assume their main topic of conversation is me, but I don’t need that business going to my head.

We have a debriefing with Chief Trohman this morning. He really gets irritated when we are late. So far, we are walking in the door a quarter after.

There are only five of us on the police and county force, including Joe. Celene is isolated, quiet, and rural, so there is no need for two separate departments, so we are city and county police officers. We take turns on rotation, which usually last a month. If there is an emergency, such as a fight at Spencer’s, then we can all get called in. This month, Gabe and I have the day shift, which is fast approaching to be over. The other part of our team is Jon Walker, a dark haired, brown eyed handsome man; and Kenny Harris, shorter and stockier than all of us with light brown hair. Both are swell guys, and have been amiable to work with.

Jon is from Celene. We went to school together, in fact. I was more of a farm boy. I knew everyone, but rarely participated in sports or clubs. I just didn’t have time. I didn’t want to leave my mother with all the responsibilities on the farm. Too many times our lessee would be short a farm hand. It was beneficial to the quality of the cotton that it is planted and harvested under certain times of the year, and under certain weather conditions. A lot of my mornings before school were spent helping my mother feed chickens, cows, goats, and pigs. My afternoons were helping in the fields. The hard work never bothered me at all. It’s like my mother always said, it builds character. Jon is from a wealthy family, his father being the judge, and then mayor, so I don’t know why he passed on the chance to go to college. He was the school’s quarterback and all American-boy who married the lead cheerleader/girl-next-door, Cassie Vandenboom. They had been going steady since 6th grade, and still together at age 23. Maybe this is the life you end up with if your father doesn’t die in the war. They have a young daughter, I believe she is three or four now. He’s mentioned how nights are an inconvenience to his family’s schedule. His daughter is growing up too fast, and he’s already missed important milestones. He keeps talking about the “big break” for him to get his promotion to full time detective or Corporal. Maybe even move out of Celene to a bigger town with “more action.” He thinks he will be able to impress Joe and be assigned full time on days only. He’s tried to talk me into volunteering for nights, “since I am not married nor have kids.” I like the rotation sifts, the opportunity to experience and understand both the day and night, and what happens during these times.

Kenny transferred here from Austin. His wife wanted a quieter life for them and his new baby. There was talk from Gabe, he got the story about Kenny, on the reason for the move. According to him, a shootout occurred during a bank robbery. Kenny got hit in his left shoulder, and that was just too damn close to his heart for his wife’s liking. So his Assistant Chief called up Joe, and he decided we needed one more. Joe was patrolling with Jon before Kenny came, so I think Joe was ready to go back to his desk job, more for the peace and quiet from Jon's incessant talking.

As we are walking to the back, we pass our two stations of desks, which are two desks each facing each other and on opposite sides of the walk way. Just by personality, I’m sure the average observer would be able to pick out which group of desks belong to Gabe and me. He’s not the neatest, and always complaining of not finding reports. I usually remark his mother doesn’t work here and to clean up his area. He never listens.

We see that Kenny, Jon; who have just gotten off their night shift, are waiting at the long gray metal and silver banded meeting table in our debriefing room. Rectangular shaped in size with half windows and blinds. Joe is standing at the end by the door, arms crossed. His hair is looking more frizzed than usual, which means a restless night. When he sees us approaching, he glances at his wristwatch. This makes me pick up my pace a little and I motion with my head for Gabe to hurry it up too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep in the Heart of Texas — Lyricist: June Hershey.


	3. The Great Pretender

  
“Glad you boys have finally made it.” Joe says in a sarcastic tone as we walk in and take two empty seats across from Jon and Kenny at the rectangular table. They glance up, then their eyes avert back to the surface of the table. This must be one of those days where Joe isn’t in a good mood.

Carrie walks into the room behind us with a notepad and pencil, obviously ready to take notes of our debriefing. Gabe pats the seat of the wooden swivel chair beside him. She sashays right on by without a glance his way, to take the empty seat at the other end of the table. I hear Kenny snicker and I try to hide my grin with my hand. At least he gave it the ‘old college try.’

“Let me catch you slowpokes up to speed. Keltie Colleen, twenty-two, found dead in her apartment room above Spencer’s yesterday evening. She didn’t come down for breakfast that morning, but Linda Ignarro, the ‘house mother,’ thought nothing of it, claiming that Keltie had been acting more tired than usual and decided to let her sleep. Concern arose when she didn’t come down for lunch later that day either. A few hours before Spencer’s was to open and her shift at the bar begins; her roommate Vicky T decides to check on her, knowing that Keltie had recently broken up with her boyfriend a few days before. There’s no answer when she knocked on her door, no sound coming from the room. No one had seen her leave the room all day, not even for bathroom visits. Linda Ignarro decides to use her master key to open her door. They then find Keltie on the floor of her room, strangled. Looks like the killer used their hands. Yes, strangulation is the cause of death confirmed by Dr. Helzer, somewhere between midnight and three a.m. I’m sure you boys can agree after witnessing the purple bruises that were on the victim’s neck. Questions?”

I briefly flashback to my mother in the nightmare this morning. How she looked, how she suffered. I make a mental note to call her when this meeting is over.

“Ok, good. Continuing.” Joe leafs through his pile of recently typed report of our findings last night. No doubt courtesy of our hard working secretary who came in earlier than usual to help Joe prep for this debriefing. “You were all called to the house to investigate the room and bag evidence. William Beckett has reported back that the processing of the photographs may take 24 hours or more. You all were each assigned to question Linda Ignarro, Spencer Smith, and Vicky T. Findings? Ryan.”

“I questioned Linda Ignarro. She didn’t stray much from the story that you just reported. Keltie didn’t come down for breakfast or lunch that day. She figured she was nursing a broken heart. Vicky alerted her that Keltie wasn’t seen all day and no answer to her door. Linda used her key to open it. Keltie was on the floor in front of her bed and door. This was one of the smaller rooms in the back by the hallway, so I don’t know how no one heard a struggle. Laying on her back, knees slightly bent to the sides and arms beside her body. Her head rolled to the left, facing her dresser, eyes still open and slightly bulging. Rolled tape was wiped on top of her yellow dress for fibers. I scraped her fingernails, but no skin was found, so she didn’t fight her attacker. Maybe she knew him or her? Uh — Gabe helped me dust her room for fingerprints and we allowed William to take photographs of the scene. Her bed was made, so we don’t expect any sexual acts to have happened. Her jewelry was still on her body; which was a pair of pearl earrings and a ring on her right hand. Looked like an heirloom wedding band. Maybe her mother’s or grandmother’s. We plan on checking the finger prints on the door knob and compare it to our victim’s. I suggest the other girls in the house to be fingerprinted too to eliminate them as suspects. Other than going back over the pictures, maybe question more people who were in the house that night?” I recite to Joe and my co-workers in the room. I had practiced what I was going to say in the shower. Now is not the time for blunders.

“Jesus, Ryan, didn’t expect that much detail. Good luck on getting anyone to admit they were in the lounge at Spencer’s that night and I doubt Spencer will tell us either. Next? Kenny?”

“Jon and I questioned Spencer Smith. He acted indifferent to the fact someone was killed in his establishment and more concerned about his business. If this incident is going to cause less foot traffic and less earnings for him. He mentioned that the night before, Keltie acted restless and kept checking her watch. I broached the subject of, uh, personal customers, and he said that after her first month there, she had developed a relationship with someone. She never would say who, that was kept secret. She switched to being a barmaid only and not, uh, other entertainment. This cut back her pay, so she moved into the smaller room that only had a full size walnut poster bed and dresser. She seemed depressed and withdrawn, but he blew it off as boyfriend troubles. She was looking for work in town, but was also having problems finding a job because of her address. He said he didn’t want to throw her out on the street, but she was having difficulty paying the rent. He’s now in the process of finding her family in Sweetwater to send her belongings to.”

“He seems to be hiding something, sir. I think —“ Jon interjects.

“Jon, I need facts right now. We can’t be led with prognostications and predictions. We need to gather facts and evidence. How many times must I remind you? He also lives in that house and does maintenance for the rooms. We must wait for prints. Saporta?”

Gabe leans forward on his arms on the table, looking between all of us like he has the latest news before the newspaper. “Vicky T. told me that Keltie and Spencer had been arguing lately about her pay, and she suspects Spencer cut her wages to force her to take johns again — and...”

“Saporta! Can you please tell us this information in a more formal report manner and not like you’re a hen spreading the towns gossip. We will have plenty of that in the next few weeks while we work on this case.” Joe interrupts with crossed arms and a click of his tongue. Carrie snorts a laugh and is trying to hide her smile.

“Yes, sir.” Gabe leans back in his chair, and we all get a glimpse of the serious Officer Saporta that briefly graces our presence at the station. “I questioned a resident of the house, Vicky T. She expressed concern that Spencer may have been abusing the rights of Keltie Colleen while working in his establishment and living in the upstairs room. She had heard arguing between the victim and Spencer Smith about her wages for waiting tables in the lounge. Keltie came to her about her concern on Spencer cutting wages in the hopes she would go back to entertaining the men. She had changed her mind on that type of lifestyle, wanting to prove to the new boyfriend she was wife material. Again, there was a claim that Keltie seemed to be tired and depressed. Not eating much, sleeping a lot. Vicky commented that it could’ve been because of boyfriend problems.” Gabe finishes his statement solemnly.

An idea springs up in my mind, and I don’t know why’d I hadn’t thought of it before. “Sir. I would like permission to question another resident at the house. I believe Elizabeth Berg may have some valuable information. She wasn’t spotted that evening and it’s not clear if she was in the premises, but I believe she befriended the victim and may have information on this boyfriend.”

“Permission granted Officer Ross. Interview her and also get her prints. Is there anyone else we are missing from the house?” Joe asks while he taps his pen on the table.

“I don’t think so, sir. I would like to ask permission to interview Spencer Smith again. Since we have new information on him and the victim’s relationship. Maybe Saporta can get a written statement from Vicky T.?” Jon suggests to Joe.

“Good thinking, Walker. So you all know what you need to do? Plus, I wanted to talk to you about a new shift schedule.” Joe replies. I notice that Jon sits up straighter in his seat, and he glances at me, then back to Joe. “Finances for this investigation will prohibit overnight patrolling, and right when we need it most. Kenny and Jon, you’re new schedule will be four to midnight. Ryan and Gabe, I’m going to need you two from eight in the morning til four. It would be nice to stay an hour late to debrief each other on your findings of the day, or any other police business. These new hours will continue after our investigation is concluded. I’m suspecting we have a jealous boyfriend on our hands, or Spencer Smith wasn’t able to control his anger. Ross, see if Keltie mentioned any names to Z— Elizabeth Berg. Get her prints so she doesn’t have to come in. I don’t want a scene or the newspaper getting their hands on any of the girls. Kenny and Jon, question Spencer again, get a written statement to see if his story falters. Saporta, get that written statement from Vicky. Questions? I’m proud of you boys. Go get this killer.”

“Sir?” Jon raises his hand and voice to get Joe’s attention. “Kenny and I have just came off the night shift. Isn’t it time that we rotate? I thought—“

“Jon, I decided that I need Ryan to work on this case. He’s good with questioning people. But if you think you’re superior knowledge and decisions could run this department better than — “ Joe’s voice elevates, his face flushing. One thing we have all learned very quickly is to not piss Joe off. Unless you want to walk downtown, giving parking tickets to expired meters.

“No sir.” Jon interrupts before Joe has a complete meltdown.

“Thank you for your better judgement Officer Walker. If there’s nothing else, you and Kenny are dismissed to rest up and come back here at four for your shift. I trust you are happy you no longer need to stay overnight, since we don’t have anyone in the jail or other numerous emergencies. Speaking of emergencies. Any calls that come in at night will come to me and I will make the executive decision on who will respond. So Saporta, make sure you pay your phone bill this month and from now on. You’re dismissed.” Joe finishes. He closes his file folder as a signal that he is finished, and it’s time for us to leave. He steps over to the chalkboard behind him. He writes Keltie’s name in the middle with all the factual information encircling it. Visual representations keep you focused, Joe has said. You’ll see in the chart what you can’t see in front of your nose. This theory is about to be tested.

Technically we are all still in training, with Kenny having the most experience of us all. We need to solve this case efficiently and effectively.

As we are leaving the meeting room, I hear an orchestral of conversations around me. Jon is telling Kenny his theories on the reasons why Spencer would want Keltie gone. Kenny mentions that maybe Spencer put Linda up to doing his dirty work. Gabe is brainstorming on ways to win Carrie over.

“Chocolates? Cliche’. Flowers? She may be allergic. I know! I’ll hire a mariachi band and serenade her outside her house. Women love to be sung to.” Gabe reflects.

I stop in my tracks when I see the lean, brown haired man lingering around my desk. Light grey trousers, matching jacket with thin dark gray pin stripes, white button up shirt, geo-metric design tie in shades of blues and grays. His hair is cut shorter than mine, with a side part and slicked back; Cary Grant style. I have to admit, he looks good, damn good. As soon as he spots me, he stands up straighter, fidgeting with a brown envelope. I could only assume these are the photos from the crime scene.

William Beckett works for the daily newspaper West Texan. Celene being such a small town with nonexistent crime, our department doesn’t have a crime scene photographer. For a little extra pay by the city, William will take the photos for us. This also gives him a first person perspective for his reporting, but he’s not allowed to use photos he’s taken of the victims. I’m sure his front page story of the strangled barmaid will feature a photo of Spencer’s, the house previously known as The Jackrabbit Ranch. His hunch is right, that’s not gonna be good for business.

I guess I should mention that William is also my ex-lover.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. It’s been way too long, Ry.”  
He extends his hand for a shake. I hesitate momentarily, looking around in my peripheral vision to see if anyone caught his greeting or how he’s undressing me with his eyes.

“William. I see you’ve finished the photos already. You could’ve left them with Carrie.” I reply smugly.

“And miss my favorite man-in-uniform?” William stepped closer to me to counter. “Besides, Carrie wasn’t there, so I let myself back. I knew you were probably debriefing. Didn’t think you would mind.” He finishes with his charming smile, baring perfect white teeth. He hitches one eyebrow up at me. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

“Just busy around here now. Have people to talk to. Next time you can leave it on my desk.” I retaliate.

“I’m starting to think you didn’t want to see me, Ross. Didn’t get to chat much the other night. Shall we get together for drinks?” He presses, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he rolls on the balls of his feet. We haven't talked in a month and a half, and that was a casual hello when we ran into each other at the diner. He’s being extremely eager now.

Right at that moment I glance over my shoulder and notice Gabe has sat down at his desk, shuffling through papers to appear busy. I can tell by the expression on his face he’s been eavesdropping. I take William’s elbow in my grip, leading him to the glass door in the lobby.

“Not here, William.” I hiss under my breath. Carrie looks up from her work to watch us walk out the front door and into the parking lot. I have let go of his elbow by then, but I’m headed straight to his 1951 baby blue Studebaker. It’s only a two seater, confining but very intimate. This car has a ‘single and ready to mingle’ ambiance.

“I have some questions to ask you about the investigation, Ryan. If you could call me up, we could meet, maybe — “ He’s handing me a piece of paper. This is how it all started eight months ago. A piece of paper with his phone number. ‘Call me’ written below with a smiley face. Questions about a car accident by the river. In fact, he didn’t have any concerns about the incident at all. I think his main question was what I look like naked.

“I really don’t think that’s wise, William. We need to keep our relationship professional. If you have questions, you can call the department. Carrie will be able to give you the information we are releasing to the public.” I crumple up the paper and throw it to the ground. Heartless? Cruel? Maybe. But William is relentless, this is just banter and foreplay to him.

“Give me a call when you decide to be honest with yourself, Officer Ross.” He remarks curtly while opening his car door, climbing inside, placing his black Stetson fedora on this head. I take this as my stage exit, turn to walk back in the building. I’m doing my best to remain calm, flexing my fingers, counting to ten. I make it to five before I growl “Fuck you, William Beckett,” under my breath, open the glass door and walk in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Pretender — Lyricist: Buck Ram.


	4. I've Got You Under My Skin

The day ended up being filled with traffic stops, Travie McCoy jaywalking to Pete’s Diner for his shift, and a cat stuck in a tree. I didn't have the chance to go to Spencer’s, to talk to Z. Which may be more of a blessing in disguise, since I don't have all of my questions ready yet. Plus, I need to gather a print kit so she won't have to come to the station.

Joe really goes out if his way to show respect to the women who work there. I don't know why. It's always has been a ”turn the other cheek” situation. What we don't know won't get anyone arrested. No proof that money exchanges between the john and woman, no proof its prostitution. Vicky T has been picked up in town, hanging on out on a corner on Main. She claimed to be waiting for someone that was to pick her up ”for a date.” Can’t prove she's actually soliciting, so Joe had to let her go.

There was a raid on the place when I was a kid when it was called The Jackrabbit Ranch, or just Jackrabbit for short. Didn't understand the name til middle school age. Anyway, twelve men were taken in for possible solicitation of sex, along with four women. There were scandals of divorce, and a few stayed married. I'm sure those were eggshell situations. The girls were bailed, but not without a picket line of ”good Christian protesters” waiting for them. Someone in the crowd threw horseshit in one of the woman's face. I was in High School at the time, and one of the many reasons why I stopped going to church.

I was tired of being told by a ”man of God,” reading from a book written by ”men who became enlightened by the Holy Spirit,” that I was going to hell for being attracted to other men. No, I hadn't come out publicly, that is a sure fire way to get yourself killed in this day and age. I had a strong suspicion that my mother knows. They just tend to hone in on these things. But to say my sin is greater than the married pastor pinching the choir women’s butts during rehearsals? The church secretary having an affair with the youth pastor, lesser than mine? If we were to get technical, wouldn't they be under scrutiny for eating pork? Not covering their heads, or even cutting their hair? I've written the church off as hypocrisy a long time ago. I know it sometimes hurts my mother that I don't go, but she has seen and heard for herself how man has twisted ”the Good Word” to benefit themselves in the name of Christianity.

I'm just sitting down to watch Tonight Starring Steve Allen, with plans to eat my ham sandwich when I hear a knock on my front door. It's been a long day and all I really want to do is relax. I've already taken off my uniform, so I'm just in my white undershirt and boxers. Maybe Gabe has come by with some beer. It wouldn't be unlike him, but we haven't just sat, drink beer, or just hang in a long time. It would be something fun and out of my usual routine to do. Anything to break the monotony.

When I open the door, William is standing on my Welcome mat on my front porch. First thing I notice is how he's dressed. He took time to choose what to wear for this visit. Khaki colored slacks, a navy blue knit shirt, dark brown penny loafers with a bomber style suede jacket the same brown as his shoes. His hair is impeccably styled, slicked back, and I have to admit he smells good. Canoe, I believe. Sure, making me feel slightly uncomfortable with the way I'm dressed, but he has come unannounced. Whatever it is he has to say will be done on my front porch.

On second thought, I don't need the neighbors seeing William Beckett on my front porch and me in my underwear.

I stand aside while he's been standing there, nothing said and just a slight smile on his face. I wave him in with my hand. He shrugs out if his jacket, folds it and places it on the back of my monstrosity called a sofa. I've already walked back to my wood and black leather recliner, my solace in this house. I sat down, picked up my plate, took a bite of food, just watching him. He sits on the Danish modern couch Gabe named “god awful orange” that came with the rental. He’s on the edge closest to my chair. Legs crossed but arms spread out on either side of him, resting on the back of the couch. He's leaning back, I guess that is supposed to be an invitation.

”We didn't get to finish our conversation today, Ryan.” I pick up my beer, take a sip, place it back down on the 3 legged, wooden kidney-shaped coffee table in front of me. Never taking my eyes off him. I've taken another bite of my sandwich, because damn it, I didn't get the chance to eat lunch today and no matter how scrumptious William Beckett is looking on that couch, I'm going to eat. Even if it's only two bites and a beer.

”What do you want, William? I thought I made myself clear yesterday, and a few months back when I said this needs to remain professional. Whatever this is. It can't be anything more. We are too different. It didn't work, and it won't work between us. City mouse and country mouse. Remember that story. We visited each other's world. I'm not impressed. I don't know why you are still in this town. You talk of nothing but moving to Dallas, becoming a famous photographer. Go. There is nothing holding you back.” It's the same speech I gave months earlier, and its a speech I won't falter from now.

”Is there, Ryan? Nothing to keep me here? I remember the sweet nothings you'd whisper in my ear. It's not what you said then. Though, nothing was ever said about love or devotion, but I don't see how we couldn't try to make this work.” William counters me, he's leaning forward with elbows on knees. Staring at my eyes, travels down my chest and to my crotch. He's not being subtle at all. My dick betrays me and twitches at the sudden attention it's getting from William’s stare.

”There is only one thing that you and I have in common William. We like cock. And you think that is enough to build some kind of relationship on? And I told you we could never have a relationship in this town. We couldn’t hide forever. I'm not leaving my job, my mother, or the life that I have built so far. This isn’t breaking news. So why are you here?” I ask again.

”Jesus you are thick, Ryan. Why are you so serious? We could have fun, you know. I'm not proposing forever. I just thought — “

”Some fun? Just some fun, you say. That's rich, William. Where you’re from, maybe that's the lifestyle. Just fucking around. I'm not comfortable with that. I'm not saying I want to fall in love, but I don't want meaningless sex. Just --, you need to leave. This is going nowhere.” I stand up from my chair, set my beer down and start to walk to the front door. I then hear William snicker.

”Classic Ryan Ross. His mouth says one thing, but it's obvious his dick wants something else. Good luck fighting those urges in this shitty little town. After I leave, will it just be Rosie and her five sisters? How long before the cows asses are tempting?” William teases.

”William!” I yell. I have already grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him off the couch. I shove him into the nearest wall next to the sofa, and I'm just holding him there. Fighting the urge to both kiss and punch him.

”Goddamn, I always liked it when you got rough.” He palms my cock and starts rubbing. Unfuckingbelievable. ”I'm under your skin. You will always want me. You can't resist me. Why don't you put your small town, good old boy principles away and fuck me?” William purrs inches from my lips.

A switch in me has been flipped, maybe because I let my dick win this argument.  
I don't love him. I never will. But damn, I need to get laid.

”Is this what you want, William? Is this what you came here for?” I growl as I cup his cock in my hand. I grab his jaw with my other hand and I start to kiss him roughly. No sweet pecks or light necking. He won't leave me alone, and something in me gets angry at this thought. Because we are the only two homosexuals in town. Does that automatically qualify as friends with benefits relationship? Again I'm cursing myself in my head for ever getting involved, while my cock is praising that William has dropped by, horny and wanting to fuck.

”Is this what you want?” I snarl into his neck while I place my right leg in the middle of his crotch. Lifting my knee, rubbing my cock on his left leg while he starts to grind into mine. I grab a fistful of hair and slam his head back into the wall, attacking his mouth with my tongue. Something in me has been released. I'm surprised by my own actions while a voice in my head tells me that William deserves this. Yes. Yes, he does.

I then grab William by his hips, pull him closer to me so our cocks are rubbing together. With on hand, I unbutton his trousers, pull the zipper down, then slide my hand inside his underwear. I place a tight grip on his cock and start stroking.

”Is this what you fucking want?” I breathe into his mouth. We've been reduced to panting and moaning, no longer able to kiss. Just mouths open next to one another while hands grope, rub, and stroke the others dick. With one hand still around his waist, I turn him to sit back on the couch, his trousers down mid-thigh and his dick hanging out of his underwear, just as he should be. I pull my own boxers off, step forward to offer his mouth my cock. He takes it, right down to my pubic hair and my knees quake. He was always fantastic at sucking dick. My hands go to his hair and I can't control myself. I start pumping into his mouth, his lips tight around my dick feels so damn good. He rests his hands on my hips, trying to get me to slow down my actions. I feel possessed and I tighten my grip on his hair. He came here, practically begging for it. I'm going to get what I want.

I pull my dick out of his mouth with a vacuumed pop sound. I’m yanking off his shirt over his head and using a foot to push the trousers down. I reach for his underwear, and he lifts his butt up for me to slide them off. Good boy. I pull him up under his shoulders for him to stand, when he does, I turn him around and push him back onto the couch. He's facing the entryway of my house and across from that, my two chairs and dining table. Arms on the back of the couch, knees resting on the cushions. I step forward til my dick is rubbing into the middle of his ass cheeks. I slide my hand down and start massaging the ringed muscle to his entrance. It's quivering under my touch, and damn, that makes my cock grow even harder.

I bring my hand to his mouth, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

”Lick. Get it wet.” I command.

He goes for some seductive move and sucks on my fingers. I just need to get some spit so I don't have to stop to get the lube from my bedroom. If I stop, my subconscious will kick in and this could all come to a screeching halt. So I hope William is in the mood for a rough fuck.

I bring my wet fingers to my mouth, spit on them myself, then back to his asshole and push in. It's not fast or rough, but I'm not wasting time either. He moans, leans his neck back, and pushes against me. As my finger sinks further and harder into his ass, my cock is brushing up against his cheeks. I can't handle the wait any longer, I slip my finger out, align my cock to his hole and glide in. I'm not slow and gentle, but I'm not slamming into him. Yet. He groans even louder and pushes back against me. He's starting his own rhythm against my cock. Back arched, ass sticking out for me, taking it like a whore.

”Is this what you wanted, you fucking cock slut?” I growl. William mumbles something into his arm, he's incoherent and bucking up against me harder and faster. I place my hands on his hips and start pulling him back to me with the thrusts. He's pushing back against me like he was told this would be the last fuck of his life. I see one hand leave the couch, reach down to his own dick to jack off. The visual of the sweat forming on his back, his ass slamming onto my dick, and his incoherent moans set me off. The light dizziness in my head, the white lights that flashes in my vision, as I pull my dick out and beat off against his butt cheek while I come. He's moaning too, so I assume he's spilling over onto his hand.

I stand up, walk into the galley kitchen that adjoins to the small dining room. Grab a cup towel off the fridge door. I'm wiping my hand off, then toss it to William, who’s facing me over the back of the couch. I see him sit up on his knees, looking down at himself as he's wiping his hand and dick off. He then reaches around to get the cheek with my come. Smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. I walk back to the couch, put my boxers back on. I then realize I never took off my shirt, and he still has his socks and loafers on. For some reason, that makes me chuckle to myself.

”What's so funny, cowboy?” William had turned around and is sitting on the couch. Looking over at me, smiling, reaching for my hand to pull me closer, and he's still naked. Fuck, this is the part where I have to be a jerk.

”William. You need to go now. I don't need the neighbors noticing that godforsaken Studebaker of yours in my driveway and have the rumors fly. You've been here too long as it is.” I say nonchalantly.

”You're kidding me? Right? You've got to be fucking kidding me Ryan fucking Ross. You're an asshole! Did you know that? You're a bastard. Why the fuck did I even think of coming here?” William starts yelling with disbelief. He's gathered his clothes and is getting dressed while he's spatting curses my way.

”William, I told you. I don't want a relationship. You knew what the outcome would be and if you thought different, you were lying to yourself. Go home. Don't come back. I'm not going to change my mind.” I reply while holding his jacket to him.

”Fuck you!” William yells as he storms out the door, not before slamming it shut behind him as hard as he can.

If anyone ever tells you that dealing with men is easier than women, they are lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve Got You Under My Skin — Lyricist: Cole Porter.


	5. Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries!

I convinced Joe to let me take my truck to Spencer's. My argument was that if I take the squad car, Spencer will be be on guard, thinking he's about to be arrested. If I take my own truck, and Gabe comes with me, then there isn't a threat. For all he knows, we are there for a drink. Even though it's two in the afternoon, and the lounge isn't opened. This is the "daytime" hours of the house; where the girls are just waking up from the night before. Possibly performing their day jobs. Vicky T cuts hair in a little side parlor room next to the kitchen. Z makes dresses for a boutique in town, if she's not working on her own costumes. This gives the girls the means to declare their earnings, so the mayor won't call for an audit. It's a cover up basically, and the police department are all in the know. We don't need a mess like the raid caused back in '51. A lawyer was disbarred. Dr. Miller's assistant was basically driven out of town. A few entrepreneurs lost their business, forcing them to liquidate and close their doors. I think that gave Pete's father the most business of his life while here in Celene, the disbarment of his competition plus the divorces that were filed.

Gabe hops out a little too enthusiastically once I park on the gravel half circle in front of the white picket fence that encircles the two story Victorian house. I cast an eye his way, a warning to keep professional. I fish the print kit case out of the bed of my truck. He's at the gate entrance, holding it open for me with a grin that goes ear to ear. The gate swings back with a clang, as he follows me to the wrap around front porch. Three steps up and we are at the door before he says, "Remember that night..."

"Shut up, Gabe. We had vowed not to speak of the night we came here. If Joe knew..." I begin.

"It was your birthday! A surprise. He can't get mad if we just came out here to listen to Brooklyn Jane sing and have a few drinks." Gabe retaliates. Still, the stupid grin hasn't left his face.

"And you thought it would be real funny to 'buy Keltie' for me. I had drank so much I puked on her head while she was sucking my dick. Then all over her bed before passing out. Should've saved your money." I mumble that last sentence. He doesn't know that Keltie really couldn't do anything for me. I was imagining it was William or David while Keltie was blowing me. Something about her hair, her red lipstick, and the way she kept looking up at me made me lose my lunch, as they say. It could also be because I mixed beer and whiskey that night. Jesus, it really wasn't that long ago. She had just moved here and was the new attraction at Spencer's. I hope to God I wasn't her first customer.

David. That is a name and face that hasn't popped into my mind in a long time. I guess you could say he was my first. First boyfriend, first male kiss, first male fuck. I had dated a few girls in high school. I had sex with the ones who would put out. I tried to be "normal." I thought if I ignored the emptiness, dated girls like boys were supposed to, I'd be heterosexual like everyone else. Normal. Til I met David. We met in Calculus our Senior year, became study partners. Tall, dark haired boy with a simple kind of style. Jeans and t-shirts. He kissed me for the first time in the library parking lot. Instead of attending the Spring Formal, we found an isolated pump-jack in the boonies and jerked each other off. We had sex the first time that summer before he went to A&M for school. I made a surprise visit to see him the end of October. You could say he was surprised all right. More like shocked. He was expecting his date to pick him up, but it was me at the door. I didn't ask questions. His reaction and facial expressions was all the reason I needed to get back in my truck and drive home. We haven't spoken since.

The house is painted a light pink, with white shutters and a white door. The trim is painted white also, along with the corbels, gables, posts, brackets, and finial to complete the Victorian look. The barn in the back of the house has been converted into living quarters for Linda and Spencer, so they have their own space away from the lounge/rooms. To keep with the look, the barn is also painted light pink and white. Pretty horrifying to the eyes.

I knock on the front door. Just a few seconds later, it slowly opens to reveal Linda in a black and pink floral swing dress, cap sleeves. Her blonde hair is up in a french twist, which must be casual wear for her during the day. I've seen her in sequined cocktail dresses at night, hair long and loose, keeping a close eye on the girls and making sure the drinks kept flowing to the men.

"Hi Linda, I'm here to talk to Eliza-- Z." I try on my boyish charm.

Linda hesitates with the door, and I can see resignation cross her eyes. She opens the door wider for Gabe and me to enter. The entry has a miniature landing/balcony with stairs along the right side that lead to the second story, where the bedrooms are located. There is a parlor room to the left and a bigger living room to the right. The parlor room is set up with a bar on the far left of the room, complete with four bar stools. The bay window facing the porch has a built in seating and table for extra seating in the room. There is a bathroom and the kitchen is right behind that.

The right side of the house is where the lounge is located. I guess you can say the house is off-balance, with the right side being slightly wider than the left. Two rooms, the living and family room were combined to form on long rectangular shaped lounge. The walls are wooden, the floor is wooden with scattered bookcases along one wall. A fireplace along the opposite, outer wall marks where the one room ended, and the next one began. A burgundy and gold Oriental rug with a simple drum kit, a baby grand piano tucked into the corner, and a microphone stand at the front of the room marks the "stage" where the entertainment performs. Which is usually Brooklyn Jane.

Brooklyn Jane is a long blonde hair, blue eyed beauty that definitely not from around here. Z had told me she is from England. She sings at Spencer's most nights, but has traveled to other lounges in bigger cities to sing. I believe she's been to California and New York to audition for musicals, movies, and off-Broadway. She's gotten small parts as extras, mostly as the lounge singer. She has an amazing voice, so it's just a matter of time until she gets that big break. Maybe that will be something that will make this small town famous, like Lubbock is for Buddy Holly.

Linda leads us upstairs, or I should say me, because I look back over my shoulder and Gabe is gone. I'm sure I'll find him later in Vicky's parlor. He needed a trim.

When we are on the landing, Linda points to the back of the hallway, but I already know. It's not the first time I've visited Z in her "establishment." Oh, no, not for sex. She has been like a sister to me ever since I can remember. Her father died in the war too. That made us both bastard children and whispered about. My mother had the support of my Gramma Anna, so there was no real need for her to remarry. In fact, she's remained single this whole time. Z's mother; I wish the same could be said about her. I think she was on husband number four when she died of tuberculosis. Z was eighteen at the time. At first she stayed with her stepdad, because that is who she had for family, besides us, at the time. Grandparents are gone, no aunts or uncles that she knew of, no one else.

I will never forget that stormy night she was banging on our door. I think it was a year after her mother had passed. We hadn't had rain for months, then one hot night in June the heavens just opened up. The lightning and thunder made it hard to sleep. Then I couldn't distinguish if I was hearing thunder or banging fists. My mother and I ran into each other to get downstairs at the same time, with only a warm yellow hall light illuminating the living room. My mother opened the door to a sopping wet and crying Z. She's wearing only a white, sheer nightgown that's sticking to her thin body, arms wrapped around herself and obviously shivering. My mother ushered her in and guided her to the mustard Chesterfield sofa. I was already running upstairs for towels when I could hear my mother's hushed words and consoling noises in-between Z's incoherent sobs. When I entered the room, Z had stopped talking and my mother reached for the towel. She told me to go to the kitchen to heat up milk for hot chocolate. Z looked scared, pale, and sickly. My mom had wrapped her in the rose patterned afghan my grandmother knitted from the back of the sofa, placing the towel on her head and gently drying her rain soaked hair. My mother wrapping her arms around Z's shoulders and rocking her. I noticed tears streaming down both of their cheeks, sitting in silence, when I came back to the room. After a few sips of the hot drinks, my mother and Z went upstairs to put her in dry clothes. My mom stayed with her all that night in my grandmother's old bedroom. Z had never gone back.

She stayed with us for the next few years. She helped my mother with her cake orders in town; sewed her own dresses and shirts to save money. Confiscated my jeans from my room for work wear. My mom never asked for rent, but Z was more than willing to help feed the chickens, water the goats, and harvest vegetables from the garden. She stayed in my grandmother's bedroom ever since that night. She didn't want to go back to her stepdad's house to claim her things. She said she had all she needed with us. I have noticed that she still wears a locket that her mother had given her when she was younger. She showed me the gold heart locket when we were eight, how it made a click sound when opened. Inside was a black and white picture of a little girl that looked very similar to Z. She said it was her mother, that the locket had belonged to her grandmother. That was her most precious treasure, and the only thing her mother had left her. I don't recall Z ever taking it off. Maybe just when we would go swimming in the lake, or splash in the river.

When we both turned twenty-one, it was time for me to leave home. I wanted to move for privacy and the convenience of living in town for my job. I just think that Z didn't want to wear out her welcome, even though my mother insisted that she could stay. She talked about being independent, living on her own, and not wanting to rely on a man. She worried about becoming like her mother. Clingy, dependent, and fearful. Z was the opposite of afraid. I would describe her as vivacious, spirited, enthusiastic, memorable, and uninhibited. Not the submissive personality for a 1950's woman, so this could be the reason why she has never met a man who could handle her.

So she found a room to rent above Spencer's, and she drove my grandmother's white 1937 Plymouth Sedan I was fortunate enough to keep running. She came out to our farm everyday to help my mother with cakes and deliveries. I was hopeful she would meet someone while living there, but my mother didn't have the same optimism as me. Then soon, Spencer offered her a job to wait tables in his lounge. She has sung a few times when Brooklyn Jane went out of town. Those are the times I try to go to Spencer's to watch her perform. Joe wouldn't be pleased to know this. It wouldn't be hard for anyone to accuse us of some kind of involvement. I personally don't care what other people in this hypocritical town think.

Her room is at the back of the house, on the upper level. She rents out the master bedroom of the house, which has its own private bath. I don’t know how she can afford the biggest and best room of the house, and it’s probably best I don’t. I pray it’s from earnings at the boutique. I knock on her door, and I'm greeted with a cheery, "Just a sec." Z opens the door, and her smile gets wider when she sees me. She envelopes me in a bear hug while singing, "Ryyyyyaaaaannnn!" She pulls me into her room and closes the door. That's when I notice what she's wearing.

It's the traditional full swing halter dress, in a navy blue with white trim, to look like a sailor's uniform. She is wearing a bright red haired wig, with tendril curls and a white bow. Longer hair than Shirley Temple, but it looks like she is trying to imitate that same innocent look. She's already moving her hands about while she's talking, motioning me towards her sewing table at the front of the room. She has a work area set up, complete with a side table and mannequin bust. Material is stacked on the table along with bright colorful ribbons. It looks like she's working on some type of evening dress, attaching the sequins by hand. She's talking animatedly, walking back and forth between her bed and sewing table. I'm at a loss for words, and so I'm just standing there, staring.

"Elizabeth." I interject between one of her inhalations of breath. I've gotten bits and pieces of what she's been saying. "Singing next 3 months while Brooklyn Jane is gone; got to get my dresses ready; I need to rehearse and make a playlist; should I sing 'Dream'; how much is too much Sinatra?" My mind is spinning and I need her to focus. I have work to do.

"Elizabeth!" I yell. She stops in her tracks, and I feel guilty for having sounded so harsh and loud. "I'm here to ask a few questions. About Keltie. I also need to get your prints. To exclude you as a suspect." I simplify for her while also calming my own racing mind. She blinks twice and sits down on her bed, hands in her lap.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I am on a time restraint here. I'm late getting your prints in." She smiles and nods at me. She then stands up and gives me a quick hug, sits back on the soft yellow laced bedspread.

"I've missed you, Ryan. I miss seeing you every day. And teasing you about the amount of food you consume, but how skinny you are! Where does it all go?" She gives me a wink and a smile. Unfortunately, we went skinny dipping in HS and she hasn't let me live down that peek she stolen. I think she is the only person who knew before I did about my sexuality. Doesn't mean that at six years old I tried to give her a kiss in the schoolyard. She immediately placed her hand on my face, pushed me back, saying, "You didn't ask for my permission, Mr. Ross!" She was a fireball then, and still is.

"Are you ready?” I ask. “The night of November 15th, did you see Keltie Colleen alive?" I begin.

"Yes. She was waiting tables in Spencer's. Moving quite slow actually. She seemed distracted."

"Distracted? How was she distracted, Z?" I prod.

"She kept looking at her wristwatch and the clock at the bar when she would pick up drinks. Like she was expecting someone to show up?" She answers.

"When did she start this? Looking at the clocks?" I urge.

"I noticed her looking at her watch at eleven. She would also look at the door each time it would open. So I would say she was expecting to see someone." She replies.

"Did she ever tell you who?" I inquire.

"I asked her if Prince Charming was coming to swipe her off her feet that night. She just shrugged and looked sad, like she might burst into tears at any moment. I couldn't handle that, so I didn't say anything else. Left her alone." She explains.

"Did you ever see her talk to anyone she might've been waiting for? Did you see her go upstairs with anyone?" I implore.

"She worked until midnight, maybe one in the morning. She said she wasn't feeling well and wanted to clock out early. We weren't busy and not a lot to clean up after, so I told her to get some sleep. Whoever she was waiting for, I don't think showed up. I think that is why she was even more upset. When she went upstairs, she was alone. I know that for sure. Her room is right next to mine. Just a closet of a room. I didn't hear anything after I went to bed at three that morning. I didn't hear anything that next morning, she didn't come down for lunch. None of us heard ANYTHING from her room. That's when I decided to get Linda to let me in and check on her. Keltie wasn't answering her door either and I wanted to make sure she was going to her shift in an hour." She responds.

"Alright Z, that is all I needed. Can we use the edge of the table for your prints? I'm sure you've touched her things in her room, but it's still good to have your prints on file. As a resident in the house."

Z crosses the room and carries the materials she has on her side table to her bed. I place the kit down on the side table and open the bag. It looks like an old fashioned doctor's bag, but slightly bigger. I pull out the blocked paper, ink, ink pads, and a pen to write her name and information. She looks at the collection with wide eyes, like I’m about to perform a magic show. I motion her to stand next to me, and I take her left hand while watching her face. She's relaxed, but I see the worried lines on her face. The process can give people the sense of accusation and guilt. I roll each finger, one at a time, on the ink pad then paper. By the time we are on her right hand, she's picked up the pattern and not led by me. I pick up the papers, fan them in the air for a bit, and place them in the bag.

"That's it. Painless, right? So, Thanksgiving. In a week. I'll see you at Mom's, right?" I make small talk. We are both more relaxed now that the police work is done and formality is gone.

"Well, Spencer and Linda invited me to stay here and have Thanksgiving with them. So I'm not sure..." She trails off and is looking out her bay window in the bedroom, into the backyard. I know the holidays are still hard for her, but she's been practically adopted by us, and so she can't say she's alone and has no family.

"I'm going to tell my mom you're not coming this year. I'll let her come here and drag you to her house. I just wanted to save you the dignity and let you show up on your own." I laugh as I respond.

"We can't have that! O.K., Ryan. Let Denise know I'll be there. I can come early if she needs help. Just let me know. O.K. And don't be such a stranger!" She lightly punches my arm, the smile fades, and she's hugging me tight again. She's holding onto me and suddenly I miss our late night talks in my mother's kitchen with homemade chocolate chip cookies and milk. Listening to her complain about so and so being a jerk, so and so thinking he can treat her how he wants. She would tease me that I would be the perfect husband, except for the one obvious reason.

"Elizabeth, are you O.K.? Is there something wrong?" I ask over her shoulder while rubbing her back. She steps out of my embrace and slides her red wig off. I get a glimpse of her pretty blonde hair. She shakes her head slowly, but she has such a sad face. "Is there is anything you need to tell me. Has Spencer done or said something to you?" I ask, trying to get her to tell me what she is thinking.

"No, Ryan. They are really nice people. I know there are rumors or suspicion that maybe Spencer or Linda did something. But they really do take good care of us girls. They keep the abusive drunks from taking advantage. We aren't forced to do anything we don't want to do. It's our choice. Spencer will advise us about the men, since he keeps tabs on them while they are drinking. They really do look out for our well-being." She sighs at the end of her speech and I can't help but feel that it was rehearsed. I must give her the benefit of the doubt. After all we have been through together, I trust Z.

"I'll see you in a week. With pumpkin pie. You know it's gonna be homemade and it's gonna be good! You look like you could use some desserts." I tease as I poke her in the rib.

"Look who's talking!" She nudges my stomach and smiles. I feel more comfortable leaving now that she's not looking as upset as before. I walk towards her door, I'm reaching for the shiny glass knob.

"Ryan. Please come see me perform in a few weeks. Brooklyn Jane is going home and I have a chance to sing again. I would really like you to come." Her eyes are glassy and she looks hopeful.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." I respond. I kiss her cheek, give her my brightest smile, and walk out her bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries — Lyricist: Lew Brown.


	6. Bloodshot Eyes

"God damn it!" Brendon breathes out exasperatingly.

He adjusts his fedora lower over his brow, to protect his eyes from the freezing rain on this December night. He pulls the upturned collar of his trench coat closer to his neck, trying to keep something of him dry. He's crouched by the dead body of Carlos, his informant, in a dimly lit and deserted alley in downtown Houston. Carlos was of Hispanic descent, maybe nineteen, with a father in Harris County Jail for robbery and attempted murder on a liquor store clerk. He was Brendon's inside eyes and ears on the beginnings of the Mexican Mafia, whose tentacles were reaching outside of the prisons and jails. Who were behind the orders of the killings? Who was being recruited, and for what purpose? He's been stabbed several times with what looks like a switchblade, according to the width of punctures. Brendon won't be getting his answers anytime soon.

He rolls the body over with gloved hands to discover the pooled blood underneath the right lower back. He was stabbed in the kidney multiple times, brought down to the ground to "talk." It would be enough time for Carlos to have given his assailant the information he was seeking. Who was watching them? Who did he work for? Are the police involved? What are the agents names? He was then stabbed all along the abdomen, chest, throat; and a few to the face, just for good measure.

Some of these wounds have the appearance that the assailant hovered over his victim, maybe trying to calm him; to be able to read his lips. Then stabbed up and in, puncturing his liver and spleen. He was able to watch, up close and personal, as the life drained from his eyes. As he suffocated for those last breaths. This thought gave Brendon Urie shivers down his spine.

"I hope he didn't suffer." Dallon says to no one in particular, to God maybe, in a low voice.

"Jesus! Dallon! How long have you been standing there? You scared the shit out of me." Brendon hisses at the tall, lean, brown haired and blue eyed man, standing beside Brendon. He's also dressed in a grey pinstripe flannel suit, a trench coat, and fedora. He's holding an umbrella above Brendon to block the rain from his view and the body. "I'm sure they made him suffer plenty. Look at this wound on his kidney." Brendon gently lifts the hem of the blood soaked, white t-shirt. "It looks more slashed than stabbed. The perpetrator went in and then up from behind." Brendon does the action of stabbing in and slashing up in the air above the body. "He pushed Carlos to the ground, making him lie on his back, even straddling him." He then steps over the body, with each foot on either side of Carlos. "Do you see these cuts here?" Brendon points to the victims face, to the lines running vertical along both cheeks. The blood, washed away by the rain. "These were made slowly and deliberately. He suffered Dallon. Then when he was done with the torture, he stabbed him and watched him bleed out." Brendon steps back over to the left side of the body, next to Dallon. He squats down to get a better look of the scene.

"Diabolical." Dallon sighs.

Dallon Weekes has always been a man of few words. Born and raised in Houston, like Brendon. A big city boy, with the big city experiences, but raised in a heavily religious household. Church of Christ, to be exact. So was Brendon, but he is no longer "practicing" the faith. Dallon walked the straight and narrow, followed the Ten Commandments, theorized if it's not mentioned in the Bible, then it's got to be a sin, and believed others should do the same. Married to his wife, Breezy, whom he met in college, they have two children, one boy and one girl. You'd say he has the perfect life. But if the perfect life included church on Sundays and a strict moral code to live by, you can count Brendon out.

"I radioed Patrick. The coroner should be here soon. He wants us at Headquarters in a half hour." Dallon finishes as he stands, never taking his eyes off of Carlos. If it wasn't for the pool of blood oozing out from underneath the jean jacket and flowing to the gutter with the rain, you would think he's asleep.

Dallon walks away to the black 1955 Ford Customline Fordor Sedan, taking the shelter of the umbrella with him. Brendon has the choice of getting soaked in the rain, along with his dead informant, or he can head back to the car. Listen to the sermon of how the deplorable choices Carlos made was inevitable for him to end up dead in a Houston alley next to a food rotten reeking and filthy dumpster.

He made a promise to the kid. He told him no harm would come of him. Just get in; see who was in charge; where the orders came from. If he was asked to kill anyone, let him know. If he was asked to recruit someone, tell him. It was supposed to be an easy assignment. He didn't think it would end up him being killed. Which meant one thing. They figured out he was a snitch. But did he give them names?

"I'm so sorry. I should've known. I'm sorry, Carlos." Brendon whispers to the motionless body on the dirty, trash strewn, and rain drenched pavement.

He stands, and turns to walk to the curb at the entrance of the alley where Dallon parked the car. It's their issued patrol vehicle. A step up from what the police drive, but not as fast as their superior colleagues. Still, it's a nice car and a far cry from what Dallon usually drives; a "family hauler," 1955 Chevrolet Nomad. Brendon has an auction bought navy blue 1955 Chevy One Fifty with a bent-eight. It was used as a getaway car in a bank robbery, a story that always gets the attention of the gents. The perks of working for the government.

Brendon sighs as he sits down in the passenger seat. Dallon looks over at him, he's placed his fedora on the dashboard to let his hair dry. Long, and straight tendrils of hair from the top of his head fall across his face. He has to use his hand several times to push the hair out of his eyes, giving it a swept look. He's doing it more out of nervous habit than keeping his hair in check.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." Dallon finally states to a tired and sullen Brendon, while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, to no particular beat at all. "I don't want you to carry the guilt of this boy's murder. Obviously he wasn't careful and made choices --"

"Dallon. Not now. I- I put him in this situation. I need to take some responsibility. I'm sure he was following up on a lead." Brendon sighs, takes off his own fedora, places it on the dashboard in front of him and sleeks his own dark brown hair back from his face. It didn't need any help, it has already been waxed and combed back to a perfect pompadour. He turns to look over to the pair of black and white Chucks sticking out of the alley, sopping wet and lifeless. Brendon closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stifle a headache. Does he need to inform Carlos’ mother and sisters that the last male figure of the house is gone? Will they send someone else over to do it? Right now, he will take the cowardly way out and let a policeman do the deed. He can't face the boy's mother right now. He can see the drama play out in his head. The mother screaming, grabbing onto his coat and asking, “Why?” The daughters crying and clinging to each other.

A 1953 Chevy paneled white One-Fifty delivery sedan has pulled up behind them on the curb. No lights on top indicate it's from the morgue. Two gentlemen step out, both in trench coats themselves. The one on the passenger's side side knocks on Brendon's window, and Brendon manually rolls it down halfway. It's sometimes a harsh reality that his car is also the make and body for the ambulances and morgue trucks.

"I'm from the city morgue, this is the coroner. We are here to declare time of death and take the body to examiner's office." The streetlamp is shining behind the gentleman, making his features black, shadowed and non distinguishable. The line is rehearsed; emotionless.

"Agent Urie. He is over there. Please have the autopsy results sent to Houston Headquarters addressed to Assistant Training Director Patrick Stump, HR Branch." Brendon then hands him a small card. Business as usual.

"We will take it from here. Thank you." And the gentlemen walk over to the body. One is carrying a black medical looking bag, while the other is pushing the stretcher. They open the kit, start to pull on the gloves.

Brendon turns his head to face out the front windshield. He's seen his fair share of corpses, but he had never known the victim. In his dazed state, he notices the rain has stopped. "Let's go debrief with Patrick. Get this over with."

With that, Dallon silently starts the engine of the Ford. He looks over at Brendon like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it. They pull away from the curb and head to FBI Headquarters.

Patrick Stump is waiting for them in his office. He even has cups of coffee for them, along with stacks of folders and papers covering his desk. Brendon is always impressed with how methodical Agent Stump is. He calculated the time it would take for the coroner to arrive, the drive back to HQ, the walk into the building and the elevator ride to his office; to have fresh, hot coffee waiting at three-thirty in the morning. But a simple task of alphabetizing and organizing is beyond him.

Dallon shuts the heavy wooded door in the one window office, then sits down in the opposite seat beside Brendon across from Patrick. Patrick Stump is a redheaded, stocky man with kind green eyes. He clears this throat, places his arms on his desk, then leans forward to face both of the men. He looks exhausted and would like nothing more than to go back to bed. Brendon is pretty certain that Stump is wearing the same suit he had on yesterday. He couldn't help but observe how wrinkled and tired his clothes looked too.

"I want to begin by saying I do not place blame on any party for the death of this boy, Carlos. The risk was explained to him and he willingly volunteered for the assignment. I will have his mother notified of his death, and of his bravery and service to us. I'm afraid that this situation puts his father in grave danger behind bars, so I am going to look into a transfer to another facility for him. Also, I think the government can pay their respects by assisting the family in relocating to the same city or town that Carlos Sr. will be transferred to."

Brendon inhales and exhales loudly. A relaxing breath, but it is anything but.

"We now need to discuss the importance of your safety. This case has been compromised. If they will kill the informant, then they will kill the agents that are investigating the case. This form of "mafia" is more dangerous than I had expected. I'm handing it over to the Criminal Investigation Division since there has been a death. You both handled it well thus far, but I'm not risking my top training rookies. Dallon, your wife and kids will need to go out of town for a while, til we can get our new agents on this and somehow derail the perpetrators. This is just for precaution. Visit in-laws out of state if you must for the holidays." Stumps suggests. Dallon gives a nodding approval with no argument to the orders.

"Urie. I'm sending you immediately to Celene, TX. There is a --" Stump starts to explain, but is cut off by an angered Brendon.

"What? Celene? That's in the middle of no-where. Celene can't decide if it wants to be Hillbilly Country or desert. Send me to Austin, or San Angelo even, boss. But not Cel --" Brendon begins to argue.

"Urie! You-have-been-compromised! You can't stay here. If you stay here, they will kill you. I found an assignment for you to begin working on in Celene. There have been two women murdered in that town. No evidence left. No fingerprints. No known cause or motive. They don't know if they are linked or not. Dallon will meet up with you after the holidays. You will brief him when he arrives. That gives you two to three weeks to catch up on the facts of this murder case. I expect you to be driving your ass to that 'middle of no-where' town by this afternoon. You'll be staying at the hotel there. It's the only hotel there, so it shouldn't be hard to find. I want to hear you've checked in by tonight. That gives you this morning to pack and the day to drive. Report to their police department tomorrow morning to Police Chief Joe Trohman. Understood, Agent Urie?"

"Yes, sir, Agent Stump." Brendon answers reluctantly.

There went his plans to meet with his friend, Jake Sinclair tonight at The Eldorado Ballroom, the red-brick, three story building used as a nightclub. Located in the predominantly African-American segregated side of Houston, it is known as the most popular venue for jazz, blues, and rhythm and blues. Few Caucasians were welcomed, but everyone knew Brendon. Or the Brendon that he wanted people to know. There he is the sharp-dressed jokester who loves jazz, Old Fashioned cocktails, dancing, and the occasional blowjob in the restroom stalls or basement. No, not in the women's restroom nor performed by a woman. He was really hoping to catch Josiah tonight, his most recent conquest. He is a lighter shade of milk chocolate that made Brendon's mouth water. Lean, but muscular with deep brown eyes and long lashes. He played the saxophone for the live band that performed there. Those lips of his that blows a vibrating reed were amazing, and thinking of them wrapped around his shaft made his cock twitch. The lust was still there, but he will leave as soon as this euphoric state faded or he lost interest. An ephemeral cycle. He'll have to wait until he returns for that much needed release. 

That is how Brendon liked his love life. With no love, actually. He doesn't want the commitment. He can be sent out of town at a moment's notice. He could be called out in the middle of the night. He doesn't want to have to lie about where he is going or what he is doing. This is what he tells himself. He prefers his hook ups to be discreet and with no attachments. No one gets hurt this way.

After arriving to his one bedroom apartment, Brendon packs his suits, loafers, wingtips, Chukka boots; along with his white undershirts, socks, underwear, dress shirts and ties. He grabs his toiletries and zips them up in his travel bag. He deliberates buying what he may forget, if what he needs or uses are supplied in Celene, Tx.

He places his suitcase in the trunk of his car. He rubs his burning and bloodshot eyes, decides he will sleep when he gets there that afternoon. Should be about a five to six hour drive. He will call Patrick when he wakes up to let him know he arrived, grab something for dinner. Hopefully this town will have a diner along with the one hotel.

Although it was never mentioned on how long he has to stay, he is hoping it will only be a month or less before Dallon and he can crack this case. Maybe he will wager a bet with Dallon, win a little cash on this endeavor.

He climbs in his navy blue One Fifty. Throws his suit jacket, then fedora in the passenger seat. He starts up the engine and sighs. He slowly shifts his car into drive. He looks out the drivers side window at the scenery of the city block he's known and loved for all his life, the people walking by to work among the tall buildings. The milk man making a delivery to the bakery across the street. A 1953 Ford truck slows down across the street, drops off a pile of newspapers from the truckbed to the gentleman waiting on the curb. He's setting up for his day of shouting the headline and hoping to make a sale. The city is waking up and showing life. Brendon then cautiously eases out onto the road leading away from his apartment building, and busy city block. He's heading northwest, towards the interstate. He isn't paying any mind to the music on the car's radio. If he took notice, he would recognize Hoppy Jones, the talking bass from The Ink Spots say:

"Be sure it's true when you say I love ya, honey.

Because you got sense enough to know it's a sin to tell a lie.

A whole lotta folks' hearts have done been broken.

Just over a whole lotta foolish words that were spoken."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bloodshot Eyes-lyrics written by Hank Penny and Ruth Hall.


	7. Dear Diary

  
July 15, 1958

 

Dear Diary,

I have been out of the hospital for just a few weeks and my knee seems to be doing better, but the doctors' say I can never dance again. Another injury and it may be impossible for me to walk. I've been very depressed with this news lately. My physical therapist thought that writing down my thoughts would 'help cheer me up.'

I've been dancing since I was a little girl and it's the only thing I ever wanted to do. The girls at the Dallas Civic Ballet sent flowers to me. It was a beautiful bouquet of yellow daisies, with white and yellow roses. My favorite color. It was a nice thought, but I couldn't help but cry each time I looked at them. This year will be the first performance of the Dallas Civic Ballet for The Nutcracker this December. I can't help but think they are in rehearsals right at this moment. Especially with only 5 months away; I'm sure they are being fitted for costumes now. I wonder what part I would've end up performing. A sugar plum fairy? I may be a little too old to play Clara, but there are ways to look younger. I would have liked to have finished out my career with the best role a dancer could ever hope for.

I can't go home to Sweetwater. My parents never wanted me to move to Dallas anyway. They had told me how impractical it is to live on a dancer's salary and that I was just dreaming. My father wanted me to attend a secretary school part time while I was living there. 'Just in case this doesn't work out.' He had motioned to me and my studio apartment. I don't want him to know that he was right. I should've thought of another plan in case dancing didn't work. But in my mind, how could it fail?

All my mother wants to talk about during her visits are her friends' daughters. Who has gotten married. Who has had a baby. Who went away to college. The prospect of being a dance teacher crossed my mind, but I don't see how a dance studio in Sweetwater could make enough money for me to be on my own.

I don't want to live with my parents again. If you have ever moved out and then had to move back home, you would understand. It was embarrassing when my parents found me in the hospital's emergency room in Dallas. My mother wailing while my father patted my hand and repeating, 'It'll be ok.' I was transferred a week after surgery from Parkland Memorial to Hendrick's Medical Center in Abilene by ambulance to start physical therapy. I hear my parents whisper about the medical bills, so I figured the last thing they need is the added expense of me living with them.

My original plan was to move to Austin, I was thinking of attending Texas State and working on my education degree. Austin does seem to be expensive, also with the medical bills that will be coming in. So maybe I can move to San Angelo, go to San Angelo State. But I will need to save up money first. I just tell Mom and Dad this is a hiccup for me. I need a year to literally get back on my feet. I need to figure this out on my own, and I can't do that with them hovering over me.

Time for therapy. I'll be released soon! My therapist said to keep my mind busy so I don't have down time to get sad. I need to think of this as a new chapter in the adventure of my life.

Keltie

 


	8. Why Don't You Do Right?

The dimly lit street lamp casts an eerie glow on the street. Pre-dawn hours with no sign of a sunrise, as of yet. It’s a few weeks until Christmas, but the ambience in our Main Square is more chilling than Halloween. A sickening sight between the alley of Pete’s Diner and the women’s clothing store, Cherie’s Boutique. Travie McCoy was the unfortunate man to find the body of this horrific crime.

  Gabe waves me away while he stumbles from the scene. Slack jawed, pale, and silent.  He mumbled he needed a few minutes to “get some air.” I can understand the shocked reaction. I’ve never seen anything this gruesome in my life.

 This is only the second human corpse I have seen, but I had no idea our bodies contained this much blood. It is a morbid scene. Whoever did this, it was a surprise attack. They had come up from behind, tilted her head back, slid the blade straight across her neck. The cut is deep, more force was used than necessary. Enough strength to be able to cut both the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Sliced through muscles, exposing the white, thin, fragile cartilage of her windpipe. The gaping hole in her neck would send air rushing out. She wouldn’t be able to scream. Though, I’m sure he had his hand over her mouth for a quieter kill. A clean kill? No.

 When you slice through an artery, with each heartbeat, purplish-red blood gushes and splutters from the wound. The human body has four to five liters of blood. It’s just a matter of minutes before she was dead from the bleed out. Her once black pencil dress is now a darker shade, due to the blood soaked front of the low cut bodice. Red streaks cover her chest and drips underneath the red lacy bra that is peeking through. It is all covered in the same crimson river that flowed down her neck. Creating an illusion of a gaudy and grotesque ruby necklace. Droplets had sprayed onto her jaw, cheeks, and black bobbed hair. Her blue-green eyes staring beyond me, forever unseeing. Just a few feet away from Vicky’s body is the murder weapon. A large, black handled boning knife.

 She had come into town, for whatever reason unknown. At this hour in the early dawn, all the stores are closed. It led me to believe that she was here last night to sell. She knew the rules, and she had gotten hundreds of warnings from Joe.

 We have blocked as much of the view with our police cars and personal vehicles as we can. Joe said he asked Carrie to call William to the scene for photographs. I’ve been taking notes of my own findings and observations, careful not to disturb the body until William arrives. I look toward the parked squad cars to see Gabe and Travie conversing a few feet away. No. It looks like they are arguing, the way Gabe’s waving his arms and hands around. I notice with each step Travie steps back, Gabe steps forward. Whatever they are talking about, Gabe doesn’t want others around to hear.

 Travie looks over to me and notices I’m watching, and starts walking towards me. Gabe is in distress, and he grows more uncomfortable with each step that he’s closer to me. He’s running his hands through his hair and looking around wildly.

 “Can we talk?” Travie asks as soon as he’s close enough to address me. Which is a good five feet from where I’m standing, at the feet of a dead Vicky T.  

 “I can’t have you come any closer, Travie.” I hold up my hand for emphasis. “I can’t have you contaminate potential evidence.” I warn him, even though I know he’s not going to move an inch more my way.

 “I have, uh, information you need to know. I don’t want to talk to Officer Saporta.” He glances over his shoulder towards a jittery and nervous looking Gabe. “Plus, Brancey and I really need to get inside to start on the pies.” He adds as an afterthought.

 And I thought Pete was the one responsible for those delicious pies.

 “You can talk to either Officer Walker or Harris. You can also find the Chief, uh, Joe to give a statement to. I don’t think we need to be shouting information at this distance. That’s my best advice.” I point in the direction of the squad cars with my pen. I can see in the distance that Kenny is already questioning Brancey. Travie must’ve called Pete after us, since I see Jon is talking to him. Gabe is still standing where I last saw him. Watching us very intensely.

 Travie wonders off towards the squad cars. I see Joe talking on his radio, maybe sending information in to Carrie at the station. Travie makes a beeline straight to him once sighted. Gabe has now thrown his arms on top of his head and he is shuffling my way. He’s acting very peculiar this morning. I look around to find him something to do.

 “What did he tell you?” Gabe breathes dauntedly beside me. Only low enough for the inquiry to be heard between us. I notice he is turned with his back to Vicky T., facing me.

 “He said he has information; I directed him to Joe.” I shrug my head toward the squad cars. “Hey, can you outline Vicky’s body? You don’t look busy.” I infer.

 “Jesus Christ!” Gabe yells too loudly. A few people glance our way, then continue with their appointed tasks.

 “Gabe, what is going on? You are more anxious than a whore in church on Sunday! Oh, maybe wrong choice of words --.”

 “I picked up Vicky last night. We arranged to meet at eleven. I thought everything would be closed and no one would see us. Travie had stayed late cleaning at Pete’s. He saw her getting into the squad car.” His voice is wavering, and he’s staring at the concrete in the alley. “I swear Ryan, I dropped her back off here at three in the morning. Her car is right over there.” He points over to an olive ‘50 Chevy Styleline. “She told me she was going straight back to her room at Spencer’s. Ryan, I swear I --.”

 It must’ve been the look on my face that stopped him rambling mid-sentence. I cannot list how many rules Gabe has broken by what he is telling me. The department has two Mainlines between the four of us, and I rarely take one home. Usually the squad cars are rotated between Gabe, Kenny, and Jon. Joe may occasionally drive a squad car, but that is usually when he performs an oil change, engine repair, or a much needed wash from the West Texas dirt.

 I was about to answer him. Tell him he needs to come clean. I believe him. He’s been my partner since I started this job. He’s like an irritating, annoying, mischievous little brother. We’ve always looked out for each other.

 I’m speechless. He looks genuinely scared, and ashamed. I begin to ask him, “Why?” Maybe in more words than the one, but the main question is: why didn’t he tell me? Why did he use the patrol car for personal business? Especially when that personal business is prostitution? What made him think he could get away with this?

 “Gabriel Saporta!” We hear Joe yell across the main square. We are still both standing still, rigid. Just staring wide-eyed at each other. He nods his head at me. As if he’s already saying goodbye. I want to tell him it will be alright. I know he didn’t do this. Gabe is not capable of something this evil. He leaves my side, moving slowly towards Joe and the other cars that are parked along the curb and across the street.

 There are some raised voices. Mainly Joe’s. I guess Gabe had decided it was best to not argue at this point and just let Joe speak his mind. I hear him say, “off the case,” and “go home until further notice.” That cannot be good. I then see Gabe walking. His hunched silhouette shuffles down Main Street, and I’m assuming toward his house. He must’ve handed in his keys to the patrol car, since that is what he drove here. He has no other way to get home, unless he waits for me.

 Just yesterday, I had picked him up from his house, as usual. He said it was his turn for the patrol car, and asked if I wanted a ride. I gave him my best, ‘Are you joking me?’ face and he just laughed. He knows I would rather drive around town in a bright red ‘58 Corvette than the squad car. I feel it attracts just as much attention, and it’s not the positive kind. I guess I don’t like to be a cop on my off duty hours. I would rather be Ryan Ross and not Officer Ross during those times. I guess I haven’t blended very well with my career as of yet.

 As we walked into the lobby of the station, Carrie was in her usual spot at the tall cherry wood desk that separates the lobby from the rest of the work area. And, as usual, Gabe had given Carrie his morning harassment.

 “Hey Doll? Have you brewed my coffee this morning yet? I’m going to need it extra strong to get this cute ass moving today.” Gabe snickers as he walks up to a red-faced Carrie.

She hops down from her tall stool, straightens her charcoal button-up blouse over her mermaid style ebony skirt, then steps over to the filing cabinet. We see her rifle through the top folders with the scarlet tips of her fingers, stops, and pulls out a piece of paper. She comes back to Gabe, slamming the paper down on the desk in front of him. She points at it and says, “No where in my position description does it say I make coffee each morning for Gabe Saporta. Now that it’s been determined that it’s not.” She leans closer to Gabe, glaring him in the eye. “Make. Your. Own. Damn. Coffee.” She then points to the back of the station. “ And go do YOUR job!”

 Honestly, that’s the most she’s ever said to him since she started working here.

 We had a second debriefing that morning; the results of the prints were ready. Carrie was the one who worked the proofs, so there wouldn’t be tampering or mistakes. It is a meticulous job of comparing prints from the scene to the prints we’ve taken from the potential suspects and residents of the house. You could say that this may have caused the beginning of Joe’s never-ending pissed off mood.

 There was a full hand print belonging to Jon on the wooden dresser in Keltie’s bedroom. When asked, he admitted to losing his balance, placing his hand on the furniture to keep from tripping. Kenny hadn’t put gloves on before entering the room; he leaned on the door frame. Placing another full palm print from our force on the scene. We received a half hour speech on the procedure of processing prints, collecting evidence, and how important that the first step is to put on gloves. Criminal Justice 101. I understand why Joe is perturbed. If we have too many mistakes, they could send this case to the next county with seasoned detectives to take over.  It would make us ignorant ‘country bumpkins’ look incompetent, and Joe’s training inefficient.

 But the results showed Jon, Kenny, Keltie, Linda, and Spencer’s prints in the room. A few unidentified prints on the door knob. Getting the men of this town to admit to ever being in that room was going to be an impossible task. Plus, the department does not have the resources of running these prints again. We settled on looking into Linda and Spencer as the main suspects. Otherwise, with no hard evidence from the body and no ties to either of them, this murder has the potential to turn into a cold case.

 It’s been haunting me. Whoever strangled Keltie knew to scrape her fingernails. They knew to dust her clothing of fibers or hair. Most of the prints were found on the doorknob; the only prints found inside the bedroom were Jon, Spencer, and Keltie. Though Linda’s print was found on one of the shelves of the headboard, so we could eliminate her. Due to her laundering the bed linens and making the beds for the girls.

 The murderer cleaned up the scene, and knew what we would be looking for. Can it be someone inside the department? Or did our perpetrator do their research on police procedures before committing this crime? There is also the possibility it could be someone who has witnessed our evidence collection, they would know the procedure. That could include the news reporter staff who’s been working the case, who is mainly William. But what would his motive be? Spencer and Linda fit the motive theory more than William.

 Keltie had gotten rebellious with the house rules. She wasn’t bringing in extra money when she decided to not turn tricks any longer. And she hadn’t started a second job to keep the city officials quiet. She was asking for better wages as a waitress only; plus having to move into the smaller and cheaper room of the house. She was becoming a pain in the ass; and a possible tipster to their corrupt business.

 A sudden flash of light has brought me out of my trance. William has arrived and is taking pictures of Vicky’s body. He only glaces my way a few times, no words exchanged but he sure is sending me daggers through his eyes. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen him in plain clothes, just jeans, a button up shirt with a jacket. I walk over to the crime kit, bend down to rummage through, and pull out the chalk. As I turn around to walk back to the body, I catch that William had been staring at my ass, and I’ve made it more convenient for him to ogle my bulge poking the front of my drab uniform slacks. I really don’t want to deal with him this morning. But of course, my dick fucking betrays me again, getting semi-hard from all his attention.

 “Happy to see me, Ross?” He smiles as I return to the body of Vicky, kneel down and begin the outline process.

 Dr. Miller will be sending his hearse to pick up the body for the autopsy. Which we will of course send Dr. Helzer to give us her report tomorrow. There is no way Dr. Miller can list ‘unnatural causes.’ I’ll have to take a wager with Gabe on whether he lists ‘suicide,’ or actually the truth, ‘homicide.’ Then I briefly remember he will not be at work today.

 “Finish your pictures, William. I have work to do.” I respond, gathering the gingerbread brown corduroy collar of my tan hunting jacket, my eyes now fixated on the concrete sidewalk and chalk outlining.

 Thankfully Joe has decided to check on my progress, which causes William to stop flirting with me. He finishes the pictures, nods to Joe and leaves. He gives him no timeline on when they will be processed and ready, and Joe doesn’t ask. I guess it’s understood it’s a high priority. I watch William walk towards Jon, letting the camera drop from the strap to his burgundy, wool, letterman jacketed chest, pulling out his notepad and pen.

“You’re a partner down.” Joe seems to trying to make small talk with the obvious. He runs his hand over his wavy comb back hair. “I never thought I would have one of my own ever be a suspect. This isn’t going to make us look meritable at all.” He’s shaking his head and staring at the ground. I’m scraping Vicky’s fingernails with a white piece of paper under her hands. Not much is falling out, and I wasn’t expecting it either. I fold the paper, place into an envelope, then start on the next hand. “I don’t think this is the work of Gabriel Saport; but he cannot work on this case because of his personal relationship with the victim.” He adds.

Joe is talking out loud; to himself and partially to me. He’s not saying anything that I don’t already know. “Ryan, is this the same killer? Why would Spencer — or Linda — come into town to slit Vicky’s throat?” He quizzically asks, with unbelieving eyes while shoving his hand in his jacket pocket, underneath his silver star badge, pulling out a cigarette and lighter.

 “They could’ve known she was in town. She’s breaking the law by being here and selling, if that is what she was doing. Or if Gabe was a john, that makes it a worse situation for us. But it takes attention away from Spencer’s, since they already have one murder being investigated at their business. Maybe we have a religious zealot who believes the only way to get rid of the Spencer’s prostitution house is to kill the girls?” I counter.

 “Why not just report it to the mayor? This is a bit extreme.” He waves with his hand over the blood soaked body and splattered sidewalk. He then lights his cigarette, takes a long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly. By this time I have finished the other hand and I’m walking over to pick up the knife to place in a paper bag. I also need to collect her purse, which has been slung over to the gutter.

 “Carrie will find the matching print from this knife. I’ll tag items in her purse later today. We need to get this person before he —.” I realize at that moment that the only woman left from Spencer’s is Z.

 

 I think back to Thanksgiving and her bright smiles and belly laughs. She was late. Which made my mother and me think she decided not to come at all. Z had distanced herself since she moved out, though my mother loves her just like she’s one of her own. My mother will wave it away as us being grown adults and busy, but I can tell when she is worried. So right when I stood up and was massaging her creased forehead, there was a knock on the door. We both smiled at each other and yelled, “Come in!,” at the same time.

 The rest of the day was spent in laughter, teasing, hugs, and endless chatter. Z had the good news of her singing gig at Spencer’s. Plus, her side business of her consignment at Cherie’s Boutique was picking up. She had spent the morning finishing up a beautiful blue dress she made for my mother. That was the reasoning behind her being late. She squealed and clapped her hands together when my mother came out of her bedroom from trying it on. An indigo, wrap-style dress with short, black ribbon trimmed pointed sleeves and sharp collar, with a black sash for the belt.  It fit her perfectly and her eyes teared up while she hugged Z.

 “Did you see the tags? Inside the dress? Look Denise, you have an original ‘ZBerg’ dress! When I saw that material, I knew it would look great on you. Isn’t it so soft and shiny? Like silk! Don’t you just love it?” She squealed with delight.

 “Elizabeth Berg! Let me pay you! This had to cost a fortune!” My mother insisted, running her hands down the skirt and straightening the belt with a huge smile I haven’t seen in a year.

“This is a gift, showing my thanks and gratitude. You’ve basically adopted me — raised me. I wanted to show you my appreciation.” Z wraps my mother in a bear hug, which is being reciprocated. “Oh, and I saw this dainty black purse with a sequined rose on the front, that would go great with it! I may get it for you for Christmas!” She leans back from the hug, but holding onto my mother’s arms while gleefully hopping from one foot to another.

She releases my mom and sashays towards me, where I’ve been sitting and observing the mannerisms of these women I adore. She plops down beside me on my grandmother's old, mustard, button-tufted back sofa; curling her lean, blue jeaned legs, and leaning onto my shoulder. It’s then I recognize my missing red and black plaid flannel shirt. “Sorry. Didn’t get anything for you. I’ve decided you are a hopeless case. Nothing will help that face of yours. Unless maybe you have an accident at work? Gun backfire? Car accident? Broken nose from a bar fight? What’s the probability you could get kicked by a cow? In the face?” She starts giggling uncontrollably at her own tasteless jokes. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders to bring her closer for a knuckle rub on her scalp. “Ouch! Hey, don’t mess up the hair!” She pushes me away, but lays her head back on my shoulder.

 “Why? Big date tonight?” I’ve realized what I’ve said before it’s too late to take back. I’ve let go of her shoulders, and she sits up again. It’s then I hoped she didn’t hear.

 “Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you two.” She responds.

 This gets my mother’s attention, so she sits in the oversized, stuffed, floral chair next to the couch; hands folded together in her lap. We glance at each other, exchanging a conversation with our eyes  of ‘what’s going on?’ ‘I don’t know, she hasn’t mentioned anything to me.’

 “I’m, uh, not doing that anymore. Turning tricks. I’ve been doing really well with the dresses, and I have even been sewing costumes for the Dallas Civic Ballet. Thanks to Keltie, she gave me the contact. I’ve also dropped off dresses at a few consignment boutiques in Dallas, and they are selling like hot cakes! I can’t keep up with the special orders! “ She shakes her head and waves her hand, batting that last thought away. “Anyway, I’m considering moving to Dallas next year.”

“Z! Honey! That is great! I’m so proud of you! I hate to see you go, but you need to spread your wings. You both were made for great things! I’ve always known that!” My mother exclaims. Crouching over Z, hugging her for the hundredth time that day.

 “I’m not gonna miss you, one bit.” I say with a small shove. She answers me with her tongue sticking out, but then she leans her head on my shoulder again.

 “Mom? I think we need to do our Thanksgiving ritual. As a celebration for Z, and just because we are all together.” I suggest.

 “Hot chocolate, staying up all night eating—and stringing popcorn for the tree? I heard The Wizard of Oz is playing tonight! I loved that movie when it came out. Though the flying monkeys scared Ryan to death! He screamed and cried in the movie theatre. I had to take him to the lobby to call him down.” My mother chatters excitedly to Z.

 “Mom!”

 

“Ryan? Ryan!” Joe’s snapping his fingers in my face as he exhales his smoke with a turn of his head. I got lost in my memory. I’m kneeled by the crime bag, so apparently I was putting something away or taking something out. I run through my mind from step one to the end. Yeah, her purse. I was getting a paper bag for Vicky’s purse.

 “When you’re finished here, go home and rest til the afternoon. All that is left are calls from Dr. Miller. Hopefully I can get Dr. Helzer in to look at the body with the medical school excuse again. She won’t be ready with her report til tomorrow. If something pressing happens, I’ll call you. But for now, you don’t have a partner, so I need to figure out if I need to rearrange who I have left, or if I’m once again a beat cop.” Joe flicks his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out with the heel of his black leather boot. “Go on. There’s the hearse now; that slow old goat. He was only called an hour and a half ago. Carrie and I can handle the phone this morning. Go.”

 I did leave and I did rest. Though part of me felt guilty for skipping out, abandoning the rest of the responsibilities to Jon and Kenny. The ‘dirty work;’ helping Dr. Miller and his assistant bag and load the body. Picking up trace evidence left behind. I bet this is their atonement for their fuck ups.

 The news awaiting me that afternoon shocked me. I really should’ve known.

 Two things: one; Gabe was now a potential suspect. I must prove that my best friend and partner isn’t capable of killing his — girlfriend? But because of our previous relationship, I will not be the one questioning him.

 Two: ‘they’ are sending an FBI agent from Houston named Brendon Urie. He’ll be here tomorrow and I’ve been assigned to work with him.

 This must be my penance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why Don't You Do Right - Songwriters: Lillian Green


	9. All Shook Up

Sitting at the metal table in the debriefing room, there is a buzz of excitement in the air. Supposedly the FBI rookie is present somewhere in the building. I have yet to meet him, but I’m at the table with Joe while Carrie is bustling around the room. She’s brought a cart in with a carafe of coffee, plate of donuts, creamer, and sugar. Of all the years I’ve worked here, she has never made coffee for a meeting, or has ever picked up donuts. I’m unsure whether I should ask for anything or wait for her to offer.  Joe is watching Carrie busy herself around the room, and I’ve noticed she’s actually humming.

I wonder what has gotten her cheerful this morning? Maybe it is because of Gabe’s absence? Who knows how long his leave will be; or if it’s indefinitely. I make a mental note to swing by his place soon to see how he’s holding up.

Just then, I hear a soft knock on the doorframe of the debriefing room. Carrie stops fidgeting with the cups, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling brightly. Joe, who is at the end of the table facing the door gives a nod, standing up, and flashing me a look to follow suit. It’s only then I turn my head to look at the man as he’s walking inside, up to me.

“We haven’t met. Agent Urie, or uh, Brendon. Brendon Urie. You can call me Brendon.”

The first thing I notice are his warm, 'puppy' eyes. A dark brown so deep it reminds me of chocolate. His smile reaches them, which causes a slight sparkle. It’s usually known as a sign that one’s sincere; or he’s really good at faking charm and interest. His nose is slightly wide and long, almost touching his Cupid’s bow. But it’s his mouth I can’t stop staring at. He has a pair of full pouty lips. Lips that most women would kill to have. They look soft and supple, and I can’t help imaging what they would feel like on mine.

“Er, uhm. Ryan. Ryan Ross...really George Ryan Ross the Third, but, uh, call me Ryan—“

“Coffee, Mr. Urie? Donut?” Carrie seems to notice my nervousness and has interrupted me. She’s never been the type to help us out in social occasions, so she was just interrupting me, I suppose. I glance towards her and I’m shocked by her appearance. She’s smiling. I then take a special note to her clothes. She’s wearing a nice black flared waist dress. The wrap style look like what Z made for my mom, with a pearl necklace and earrings. She’s even wearing stockings and dress shoes. Something is really amiss here at the Celene police station.

“Have a seat, Agent Urie.” Joe responds to the awkwardness that is present. He looks quizzically over to Carrie and me, like we’ve both sprouted an extra head in the last five minutes. We all take a seat around the rectangular table, Brendon reaching for a mug. Carrie smacks his hand away, and begins to fill it with coffee. Smiling, she pushes the cup and a spoon across the table to him, followed by the sugar and creamer. I reach for a mug, my hand is slapped away too, but she makes no attempt to fill a cup for me. I then decide on a donut, and my hand is smacked away harder this time. The plate is then moved inches in front of Brendon. He seems to have blushed, smiling at Carrie, as he takes a napkin and donut from the plate. He places his fedora on the empty chair beside him, revealing a dark brown pompadour. A little whine escapes Carrie’s throat.

 "You arrived here earlier this morning, so I’m certain you had a chance to look through our file on these murders. Before we begin, I need to ask if you have any questions.” Joe is looking between Carrie and Brendon, one is absentmindedly taking out a notebook and pen, while the other adds sugar, a little cream then stirs his coffee. Joe pours himself a cup of coffee, without incident, and takes a gulp while keeping his eyes on Carrie.

“Actually, I do. You have two cops from your department whose prints show up in the first victim’s bedroom. Why are they not suspects?” Brendon inquires. He takes a bite out of his chocolate glazed donut, and sits back waiting for the answer.

Joe sighs deeply. “I don’t think that either Kenny nor Jon are suspects. Rookies who made mistakes on their first murder crime scene? Yes. But they are not killers.” Joe replies, taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes dart from Brendon to Carrie, who is taking notes. She briefly glances at him, and you can see a whole conversation exchanged between the two. Doubt? Accusation? His own men killing prostitutes? Absurd.

“And you are 100% positive about this? I mean, Officer Ross and you have basically created this file, gathered all the evidence. These are your notes?” Brendon is now looking at me and questioning.

“Mostly, yes. I gather Jon and Kenny’s interviews. Look over the evidence and the medical reports. I make assumptions from clues like any detective would.” I snap back at him. Who does he think he is?

“You know so much. How both victims died. From what you ‘assume’ from her wounds and placement of the body of the second victim, you say she was attacked from behind. I mean it’s obvious from the mortal wound that her head was tilted up, neck slashed. But maybe she had talked to her attacker. Knew him. And he was walking away from her and then pounced. That could be possible.” Brendon has set his donut down, half of it gone. Takes a sip of coffee. Waiting for me to answer with expectant eyes. Those dark brown, penetrating eyes.

"Yes. I guess that could be possible. We could list a hundred scenarios. I just choose the one I think…”

“Or you could be the killer.” Brendon says nonchalantly, with a blank expression on his face.

 Joe chokes on his coffee. Carrie drops her pencil and is now looking up from her notepad; from Brendon, to Joe, then me.

“Hey. Just kidding. Trying to break the ice here.” Brendon says with a chuckle, highly amused at himself. He unbuttons his tweed jacket, revealing a white button up shirt and black tie, along with his holster and gun. “We seriously need to consider Kenny and Jon as suspects.” He counters with a smile. It seems like he wants to erase the awkward moment of accusing me of murder. I decide to play this game and stare at him, clenching my jaw in the process. I want him to know I didn’t appreciate his little ‘joke.’

“O.K. Well, I have taken Jon and Kenny off the case. They are going back to beat duty. Ryan will be working with you and your partner; when he arrives. So the next two weeks will be gathering evidence, interviewing, lifting prints from the knife found at the scene, and trying to tie these two cases together. If there is a common denominator between them --” Joe responds after having composing himself from said choking accident, but he’s interrupted.

“The common ‘denominator’ are two dead prostitutes from the same work establish and boarding house in your town. But if you need more than that…” Brendon lets the sentence hang, floating in the air above all our heads. Making it obvious to what we have allowed to obscenely happen. Joe flinches, Carrie is busying herself with gathering up the coffee and donut remnants from the table; avoiding eye contact. I haven’t taken my eyes away from his, determined to win this stare down. He pops the last bite of his donut in his mouth, staring back at me, while giving a smirk. What a pompous asshole. My eyes are then drawn to his mouth while he is chewing, then I watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I dart my eyes back to his. Jesus Christ, Ryan! This is my partner for the next few months, and I’m already undressing him in my mind.

“A new lead came in this morning. Zack Hall at the grocers says his has a few knives missing, including his carving knife. He noticed the back door lock to the store looked jimmied. I’m sure the knife we have belongs to him. Doesn’t make sense he would call us to report it missing if he was the one who used it to kill Vickie. I want you two to take a patrol car to the store. Question him. See how he reacts during the interview and --” Joe instructs us.

“I think I’m a good at profiling people, Chief Trohman. I am the youngest rookie on the force. And I wasn’t accepted because of who I know.” He interrupts again. Taking his eyes off of mine to look at Joe.

 Joe stands, closes his file, clears his throat. This kind of disrespect would not be tolerated by us. I notice him clench his jaw, and screw his lips into a hundred positions in that one millisecond. He coughs again.

 “You’ll be using this room for debriefings, talk of the case is no longer shared with the other officers here at the station, or any off-duty personnel. So I don’t want you to be overheard. I think there is a meeting room at the hotel Agent Urie is staying at.” Joe turns his full attention to me. “No leaking to the newspapers, or photographers for that matter. Is that clear Officer Ross? Carrie’s running prints on the knife this afternoon. You need to see Dr. Helzer on her and Dr. Miller’s reports. Might be good to contact San Angelo and see if we can borrow their polygraph.” He points at Carrie at that last sentence. She nods and keeps scribbling. “Let’s see if we can figure out who the son of a bitch is by Valentine’s, if not sooner. Understood?” Joe is looking at me and I can tell he’s having a problem with Brendon’s snide remark. He’s remaining professional and I have much more respect for him for that.

After climbing into the patrol car, Brendon stretches out in the passenger side after removing his fedora. I glance sideways at him, starting the Mainline, trying hard not to hold his gaze for long. Pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road, Brendon sighs and breaks the silence.

"So, have I landed myself in a one stoplight town?” He snickers at his own joke.

“No, actually. We have two.” I respond back, holding up two fingers but without a glance at him.

“Nice comeback. Isn’t your hair a little too long to be in uniform? I mean, don’t you have a dress code? ‘Above the collar’ is what we are told. But that’s Houston.” He’s looking out the side window, at the sparse houses rolling by.

"It’s right at the collar. Joe never says anything. He’s not as strict as the big cities, I guess.”

“It’s very Bohemian.” He says and rolls his eyes with another smirk. I have the sudden urge to pull the patrol car over and kick his city slicked ass.

“You’re the only one who’s complained. Anyone ever tell you how pleasant you are to be around?” It’s my turn to snicker, but it’s then I also realize I’m smiling. This is the camaraderie I would be exchanging with Gabe. Maybe these next few months won’t be as bad as I thought, if I can fight the urge to...

"Don’t get used to it. I’m only here for a month -- tops. Then I’ll bust this case wide open, you’ll make arrests, then I go back to civilization. There are places in Texas where it’s bustling with people, not cows. And the streets are paved. You should visit sometime.” He takes a tiny roll of paper out of his pocket, inspects it with a grin while working it between his right index finger and thumb, then puts it back. It looked like it may have been a piece torn from the case file. Carrie would be none too pleased to know he tore strips of her type-copied work she made especially for him.

“I’ve been to Dallas. Not much to really get excited about. Too many people in a tight space, in my opinion. Everyone’s in a hurry. What’s the rush?” I shrug my shoulders, then lean my left arm onto the drivers window frame. Driving with only my right hand on the wheel.

Brendon leans towards me, suddenly excited and talking with his hands.

“There’s no diversity in Dallas. Houston. You can find anything you want there. It’s a hub of culturals.” He signals like he’s holding the world in his hands. “Dallas has three, and I don’t want to have to explain which ones they are. I don’t need people thinking I’m racist. Ha! I’m far from that.” He gives me a lopsided smile, a brief spark behind his eyes flash, leans back into his seat. He then turns his head to look out the passenger window. I’m now wondering what I would need to do or say to see that look in his eyes again.

We’ve passed the main hub of town. The city square with the courthouse in the middle, surrounded by the downtown shops along with Pete’s Diner.  The grocery store is one block over, in a building all of its own. The cartoon, Mr. Pig, is painted on the sign of the storefront. I always thought it odd to see a pig dressed in a butchers apron and hat. I pull the Mainline into the front parking space; Brendon’s reaching for his fedora. He’s shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

“You didn’t tell me ‘the grocer’ is a Piggly Wiggly.” He says to me as he’s putting on his hat; a little off center—to the right, and pulls the brim towards his eyes. We are literally less than five feet to the door before he’ll have to take it off again. But for some reason, the way he’s looking at me from under the brim; even if he’s wearing it for ten seconds, is worth the view.

“Uh. Well. Didn’t think it really mattered.” I say to him once I regain composure and kill the ignition, pulling out the keys. Suddenly aware that neither of us has moved to get out of the car yet. This has kicked me into action as I turn to open my door and step out. I open the back driver door to fetch my clipboard and pen from the back seat. I glance up to see Brendon checking his holster and gun, before pulling his jacket back on.

“They’ve all closed a while back in Houston. All Safeway now. Just never expected to see the pig in butchers clothes again. My brothers and I always thought it disturbing that a pig would butcher another pig. Or any animal, really. It’s against nature.” He chuckles again at his own epiphany.

“It would be like a store where you can buy human meat carved by another human. Sheer cannibalism.” I say as I walk to the front of the car. Stopping at the sidewalk outside the front glass entrance doors.

“Mr. Pig has psychopathic tendencies. The fantasy of it, then performing the act releases a large amount of dopamine. It’s an extreme high, like you would get off of a large amount cocaine.” Brendon says as he’s closing the door to the car and walking towards me. “Then before you know it, Mr. Pig is addicted to the act. The act of carving another pig’s back for bacon can make him orgasm.” He explains, stopping beside me. Looking expectant for a response.

“Mr. Pig can also be lonely. A hermit. Isolated. Eating another guarantees he’s never alone. That the other will be with him always, like a soul connection. To fill a void.” I offer as a sympathetic understanding to a cannabilist’s plight.

“Mr. Pig needs therapy.” Brendon concludes. Opening the entrance door and walking through.

“Extensive shock therapy. Uhm. Smoked ham.”  I laugh maniacally to myself as I follow him inside.

 There are five checkout lanes in the front of the store. An ‘end where you start’ perception. Like life. Only one checker is working the front of the store. Short, pixie-cut, red hair. Bright, pretty eyes. The haircut suits her because she does look otherworldly. The tag on her white apron says ‘Roxy,’ which is covering a pink button down shirt and a red and pink plaid, ankle pant. The same colors used to bring Mr. Pig to life. I also notice that she’s enjoying the view of Agent Urie, too.

“Officer Ross, m’am. Zack Hall called about a possible break in?” I ask Roxy.

“He’s in the back. Straight through there.” She points down an aisle to the back of the store, finally acknowledging my existence in the room.

 Brendon tips his fedora to the clerk and I hear a faint gasp escape her throat.

His body type is pleasing to both sexes. His arms and chest appear muscular; though his ass is heart shaped, like a woman’s. His eyes,cheeks, and lips are uniquely soft and beautiful; his chin and jawline are angular and handsome. His skin radiates like the sun. The man literally glows, and it exudes in his personality. Agent Urie naturally hypnotizes and charms everyone, wherever he is.

“Ryan? Ryan Ross?” Brendon is saying my name and snapping his fingers in my face. We’ve reached the meat counter and there are two men watching me with puzzled looks. One being a curious Brendon Urie, one eyebrow arched at me. The other, a very large and confused Zack Hall, in a white butchers apron smeared in blood.

Jesus Christ. I’ve been caught staring at Agent Urie’s ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Shook Up-Songwriters: Elvis Presley / Otis Blackwell


	10. It’s Only Make Believe

I remind myself to breathe as he's leaning closer to me. "He did it. It was his knife. He rigged the door to look like a break-in. You can't convince me otherwise. You learn in the FBI to be leery of everyone. Everyone is a suspect.”

I’m trying not to let his vicinity and hot breath billowing my face molest my senses. "That is not how justice works. Innocent til proven guilty. His body language says he's innocent. His eyes said he is innocent. The polygraph will say he is innocent." I slam my menu down on the formica table for emphasis.

His eyes narrow to slits and he has a sadistic smirk on his face. “Poor, naive, small town boy. You have a lot to learn.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head at me.

“ Are you going to teach me?” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” His eyes lock onto mine. I’m paralyzed because I didn’t think he could hear me. He has a look of both shock and curiosity. That look is going to haunt me.

“Ready to order?” Brancey quips in a much too cheery voice. She then notices Brendon and her mouth drops open a bit. She’s snapped back to reality by a ringing bell and “order up!” Her jaw snaps closed too. She focuses her attention to me. And you can tell she is having to force herself to.

“Bring us two cheeseburgers, fries, and your coconut cream pie. Dr. Peppers too.” I rattle off to her.

With a spring in her step, she bounces off to the order window and repeats what I said to Pete. A brief smile is exchanged between the two and I wonder if something is going on there. Brittany, the other waitress is walking by, and Brancey catches her arm and whispers something in her ear. They both look over at our table and giggle. They then notice Pete’s disapproving look he’s giving to both of them, and they feign busy-ness. Hustling back to other diners in the god awful pink and teal decor.

“Does this always happen wherever you go?” I ask Brendon with a slight annoyance.

“Does what happen?” He’s tearing pieces off his napkin and rolling between his fingers. “Maybe I don’t like burgers. Maybe I wanted a sandwich. And water.” He flicks the paper roll in my direction. It hits my chest, lands on my lap. I brush it onto the floor with my hand. I notice then he’s already tearing another piece off and rolling it between his fingers.

“Order a sandwich next time. But you haven’t lived til you’ve had a slice of Pete’s coconut cream pie.” So he doesn’t realize the commotion his presence has made in our little town. Both women and men seem to be taken aback by his beauty. I never would have thought a man to be beautiful, but that is the only word to describe him.

I was too busy observing and admiring my new partner that I didn’t see William til he had already sat down, beside Brendon in the teal booth opposite of me. The surprised look on my face must’ve given him the impression that I’ve been caught.

“Damn, Ryan. He’s gorgeous! I don’t blame you for dumping me one bit now I’ve seen the competition. Hi. I’m William.” He extends his hand to Brendon. I can see Brendon’s hesitation to shake hands. And I also see his brain turning over the sentence William just blubbered out of his mouth. Brendon slowly turns his head to look at me. It’s his turn to have his jaw hanging open.

“William. Not now.” I respond through gritted teeth, glancing around to see Brancey and Brittany once again whispering behind the counter, while looking at our table.  

“I’m a reporter and photographer for The West Texan. I also take crime scene photos for the Celene PD. That’s how I met Ryan. How did you meet Ryan?”

“Uh. Today. This morning. I mean. I’m not here long. Just helping out.” Brendon manages to stammer as he peels his eyes away from me.

Shit. I’ve got to do damage control and fast.

“Excuse us.” I say to Brendon as I stand up, pulling William up with me by his arm. I then start dragging him out the door by his elbow, once again; while he’s grinning at Brendon.

“Oh. Nice to meet you.” He happens to get out right as we both walk through the restaurant door and onto the sidewalk, while waving. I’m pushing him ahead of me til we are in the parking lot. Me, with purpose; while William trips on his Oxfords.

“What the hell, William? You better not have cost me my job. Do me a favor and stay the fuck away from me!” I glance over my shoulder to notice Brendon turned in his booth and watching out the restaurants glass paneled windows. He doesn’t notice the two smiling girls delivering our food and drinks. He turns back around, nodding at them and playing nervously with his fedora. I turn back to William.

“This is not a game. This is my life you are so casually fucking around with. This is MY town. If you cause problems…”

“Fuck you, Ryan. I live here too. You have no jurisdiction on me. I will fucking do as I please. And if that means flirting…”

“No you fucking can’t!” I step toe to toe with him, bringing my head down to be able to say this as quietly and discreetly as possible. As close to his ear as I can. “If I go down, I’m sure as hell not going alone. I suggest you stop your antics before you ruin both of our lives.” I’ve scared myself with how calm I sound.

I lean back to see the anger welled in his eyes. The gritted teeth and jutted jaw. He gets my point, finally. So I turn to go back inside to eat my pie, goddamnit.

I sit down hard in the booth. I can feel Brendon’s eyes on me. He’s watching but not saying a word. I keep my eyes on my food. I notice him pause, taking deep breaths a few times, as if to speak. He wants to say something, but I’ve closed off and shut down. He’s FBI. I consider my job over. It’s just a matter of time before Joe knows.

“Uh. Don’t forget we still need to stop by Dr. Helzer’s? After lunch.” Brendon reminds me in between bites.  

“Uh huh.” I answer while shoving my half eaten burger aside to devour the pie. Damn, I’ll miss Pete’s pies.

“Hey. I-I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.” He mumbles to me, trying to catch my eyes.

I look up at him, fork in mid air. Defiance—not gratitude on my face.

“And why should you do me that favor?” I venomously spit out before I have time to think. Slowly bringing that last bite to my mouth; chewing. Watching him with wary eyes.

“It’s no one’s business.” He states, shrugging, while flashing that glorious half smile.

And again, I’m fighting the urge to grab his head, pull him to my lips, just to know what he tastes like.

 

*******************

 

“Dr. Helzer’s office is kinda far out here. What kind of practice does she do?” Brendon asks me lazily with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. Trade his fedora in for a straw hat and he’d look like everyone else in Celene. Almost.

“Veterinary clinic.”  

“What? Your medical examiner is a veterinarian? Jesus Christ, what kind of hick town is this?” Brendon yells, the toothpick falling out of his mouth for emphasis.

“Look. It’s a long story. Dr. Miller is the town doctor, and he’s a little senile. Nikki Helzer has treated so many of her patient’s owners, she could run both practices. Simultaneously. We don’t trust Dr. Miller’s findings anymore. He’s not one to actually, how do I say, take a closer look. So, we tell him she’s studying for med school and to let her look at the cadavers. She looks. She pokes around. She’ll pull—“

“O.k. I get it.” Brendon interrupts, while shaking his head in disbelief. He’s seems to have gone a little pale.

“You’ve ever sat in on an autopsy.” I ask carefully.

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Lots. While in rookie training we had to observe one. It’s just really not my favorite thing of the job.” He explains, looking nervously out the window and into the empty fields.

“I have an anatomy book and a medical reference at home. I’ll look up findings Dr Helzer may have and study up. Quite interesting how the body works, don’t you agree?” I ask while pulling up into Dr Helzer’s gravel parking lot. It’s after three in the afternoon. She doesn’t take any patients at this time unless there is an emergency. This is her time to do “farm calls” or work that she does for us. I know she saw Vicky T’s body yesterday. I’m anxious to know if she found anything besides the obvious neck wound.

“Actually, I’m more of a psychology man myself. Especially criminal behavior. I took anatomy in college. Not missing much. It’s by the book; and since you have the books.” Brendon shrugs then open his door to get out. I pause to think of what the underlying message he’s trying to say. I could basically study these things on my own and have the same training as a college degree. Huh?

We meet at the clinic’s front, and I hold the door open for him, waving him inside while I walk behind him up to the front counter. Dr. Helzer is already seated, with the files and diagrams out, making quick notes as she’s waiting. She’s got her hair up and back with a bandana again. She reminds me of Rosie the riveter. She glances at Brendon, but is looking over my shoulder, thinking that Gabe would be bringing up the rear. She looks at me quizzically. I pretend not to notice.

I give a brief explanation for Gabe’s absence. I state that he’s temporarily off the case, and they’ve sent Agent Urie to step in. Since we are both in training, it’s perfect opportunities for the both of us. Though I’m sure Houston has enough murder cases to go around, I’m not quite sure why he’s here.

Nikki (she told Brendon to call her by her first name) pulls out the photos of the autopsy and her diagrams. She explains that the knife is small, but sharp. Don’t need a thick knife to slice through the thin skin on our throats. The attack was more aggressive than necessary. Both the internal and external jugular veins were cut. Sternohyoid and omohyoid cut clean through down to the cartilage of the larynx. The body in the photos have obviously been cleaned up to expose the wound, but it didn’t make it any less gruesome.

“The way the muscles in the neck are stretched, cut, but also torn. I think your killer used way too much force than necessary.” Nikki replies while tapping her pencil on a black and white photo of Vicky T’s untimely demise.

“So we are definitely looking for a male?” Brendon says out loud to the room. Raising his eyebrows at me for confirmation.

“I consider myself strong, and I don’t think I could do this much damage. So I would have to say, yes. Probably a very strong male. Must be very angry too.” Nikki chimes in. She’s gathering the papers and photos to hand over the file to me. Even though I believe Zack when he says he didn’t kill her, he definitely has the strength to commit the act. But I can’t think of a motive.

“I still feel horrible for the Keltie girl. It was so sad since she was expecting too.” Nikki remarks while handing me the file.

“Excuse me? What did you just say? Expecting?” My jaw drops open as I lean forward towards her across the counter. I couldn’t have heard that right.

“Yes, Ryan. Her uterus was swollen. I predicted she was maybe 12-14 weeks along. Do you know who the father could be? Didn’t you see my report? Didn’t Joe mention that to you?”  She’s looks worried now, looking from Brendon then to me for reassurance.

“Uhm. We’ve gotta go now, Nikki. I’ll call you with any questions.”

I start walking towards the doors to the parking lot. I hear Brendon following, but I say nothing. He silently climbs into the car as I’m starting the engine. I’m sure he could tell by the look on my face I’m in no mood for small talk.

With the new file in hand, I march through the double glass doors of the station and take an immediate right, past Carrie and her counter to the office behind her. Straight through the wooden door of Joe’s office, closing it behind me.

“Ryan. There’s this thing called knocking. Highly recommend you do it next time.” Joe smarts off to me, then looking up to see my face. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell us? Me? What are you hiding, Joe?” I toss the new file on his desk and I’m standing, arms crossed. Waiting for the answer.

“Officer Ross. Do I need to remind you of who you are talking to?” Joe is now standing up from his chair, behind his desk. “Ross. Sit down. Looks like we need to talk.”  Joe motions to the chair beside me.

We both sit at the same time, though Joe leans back, eyebrows knitted together and jaw tightened.

“I need to know why you didn’t mention Keltie was pregnant, Joe. Why would you leave that information out? Dr. Helzer just told me. Convenient that you used Miller’s autopsy report in her file. Why?”

“Oh, Jesus. It was already going to be a scandal; because of where she lived and worked. I felt that was information the public didn’t need to know. Nor her parents. Single, pregnant, working out of a ‘lounge.’ The town can really do without that kind of attention.”

“And this would have nothing to do with you being the father?”

“What? No! Have you lost your mind, Ross?”

“Why else would you keep this a secret?”

“I just explained.” Joe sighs.

“Where were you the night Keltie died? October 12th?”

“Really? You are going to ask me that question? I’m a suspect?”

Silence.

“I had dinner with-, and I-, uh, stayed at Carrie's house.”

“OUR Carrie’s house?” The second time my jaw has dropped today.

“Yes, Ryan. The Carrie who works with us.” Joe gives me an eyeroll with his answer.

“Is she...your girlfriend? How long has this been going on? Why haven’t you…” I stammered.

“Hopefully soon, my fiancée. If she’ll have me. Again, we don’t need more gossip in this town right now, Ross. Two deaths plus the Chief of police and his secretary are having an affair! Carrie is a private person. We will let everyone know when she’s ready. So for now, don’t tell anyone. And I haven’t proposed yet, so don’t say anything about that to your mother. Ok? Am I off the suspect list now?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. I better ask Carrie to confir—“ I say with a sly smirk.

“Get the fuck out, Ross!”

I took that as my opportunity to exit his office and the station. Brendon watched with wide eyes as I marched out of the building, straight to my truck and drove home. It was all too much for me and I needed space. We’ll debrief Joe in the morning.

I couldn’t help but notice Jon’s curious stare as I came out of Joe’s office. Did he hear any of the conversation? Does he know about Joe and Carrie? Carrie’s loyalty is making a lot more sense now. But it’s not going to be me to make an announcement about their relationship or private life.

I decided a hot shower was in order to relax before dinner. It was probably going to be my usual: sandwich and beer. My mother had packed up leftover turkey from Thanksgiving, so at least I had a variety of sandwich tonight. That reminded me that Christmas was just a few days away. It will be the traditional brown sugared ham and roasted potatoes with my mother and Z. I wondered if Brendon would be going back to Houston for Christmas.

I noticed this thought entered my mind as I had stepped into my hot shower. The water rolling down my back loosened the tight muscles I’ve been holding since Dr. Helzers visit. Letting the water run down my scalp and face eased tension I’ve had since the diner and William’s unexpected run-in.

The soap is slippery in my hands and I think of the night I had last fucked William. The way I pinned him against the wall. How I hungrily kissed him. I close my eyes while running my hands down my abdomen and to my hard cock. I pull and twist my wrist while I lightly thrust into my hand, visualizing my cock fucking his mouth. Holding his head with both my hands, looking down at his hollowed cheeks. Watching him stroke his own dick with one hand while placing the other on my thigh, trying to control my deep thrusts. I imagine watching his face, his eyes closed and concentrating. I growl, “Look at me.”  I’m not met with the blue eyes of William. These eyes are a dark coffee color and glassy. There’s a twinkle, he’s enjoying my cock plunging through his lips. I let out a low moan when I realize the man is not William, but Brendon. His lithe, but muscular body on his knees. His mouth a perfect O as he’s taking me. He’s smirking. He’s looking at me with half lidded eyes while he’s spilling over onto his hand. I squeeze my eyes tighter, leaning my body forward til my forehead is against the tile wall of the shower, coming hard with loud groans. The water is hitting my chest, running down my groin, washing away my semen from my pumping hands while my knees quake.

With my hands holding me up against the shower wall, I’m gasping for deep breaths. Opening my eyes, I see my semi soft dick and feet. Realizing I’m in my shower, and not in the living room with Brendon, has given me a deep sense of regret.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Only Make Believe-Songwriters: Conway Twitty and Jack Nance


	11. Stupid Cupid

“You drew him a map also. Right?” My mother, asks me for the third time this evening while I look out the window for the twentieth.

“Yes. Precise directions and a map. He’s a city boy, so I figured ‘north three miles then turn left at the silo’ would be confusing.” I reply over my shoulder. I stand next to the Christmas tree, finally noticing the ornament I made for my mother when I was in third grade. I don’t know how she’s kept that construction paper snowman in one piece all these years. I better preserve it for her by sticking it here, way in the back, against the wall, where no one can see it…

“Ryan! That is my favorite ornament. Put it back, and get away from the window. It’s not going to bring him here any faster by watching. Come help me in the kitchen.” My mother says after her impeccable timing of stepping into the living room. 

“I’m watching for Z. She’s late. Again. You did tell her lunch and not dinner?” I respond, trying to hide my nervousness while pacing the living room. The whole house looks festive. The fir Christmas tree twinkling with bubble lights, the mercury glass Shiny Brite ornaments I remember from my youth. There are the odd shaped paper snowflakes I had crafted in elementary school, and the popcorn garland we made this last Thanksgiving night. Topped with the spiky aluminum star Z had made for her mother, but now has found its home here. My grandmother’s doily tree skirt she crocheted herself, placed on top of a red tablecloth to accent her intricate work. My mother is also wearing a crimson dress for our little gathering. Short sleeved and boatneck, since it’s been unseasonably warm this last few days. I mentioned before Christmas Eve service that I had invited Brendon for lunch. This spurred a side to her I’ve never seen before. She fretted on what to wear, which isn’t usually like her. This in turn had me pulling on my black slacks this morning and not my denims. I didn’t want my mother to feel too dressed up. 

I start to walk towards the kitchen, when there’s a knock on the door. I reach the barrier in two strides, take a deep breath, swing open the heavy wooden door to be met with a perplexed Z. Eyes wide, she mouths a slight wolf whistle. “Wow! You didn’t get all cleaned up for me, did you? Looking good, Ry.”  She winks at me, pecks me on the cheek while pushing me aside. She's wearing a green and plaid cap sleeve pintuck blouse, black capris, and red flats. Not dressy as us, but classy. Her hair in perfect blonde waves. 

My mother greets her with a smile and warm hug. Z steps back to admire the dress. “You're wearing a Zberg! Silver bell earrings. Nice touch. What’s the occasion? Besides it being Christmas Day?” Z asks while looking between my mother and myself. 

Another knock on the door breaks the silence. My palms feel sweaty and I try to shake off the sudden butterflies in my stomach. I answer the door to a smiling Brendon, who seems to be wearing his work clothes. Black slacks, white button up shirt, thin black tie. He does a quick up-down look at me. His smile fades and he seems shocked. Great. I overdid it. Should’ve just worn my damn jeans. I suddenly realize we are stoic and still in the doorway of my mother’s home, when she clears her throat. 

“Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. Come in. Did you find the house alright? I mean, of course you did. You’re here! Were my directions clear? Um, did the map help?” I rush out as he hands me a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild claret wine. I couldn’t help but notice he smells amazing. Musky with a hint of woods. 

“Yeah. It was fine. Had to make a quick trip yesterday after work to San Angelo to get the wine. Overslept a little. But yes. It was helpful. Thanks again for the invite.” Brendon says just as quick. He’s making eye contact with me longer than usual. Now I’m self conscious of my brown mop top. It must be sticking up everywhere again. Even after all that pomade? 

“Oh, sorry. Mom?” I turn to pull my mother beside me. “This is my mother, Denise. The skinny blonde is my sis—friend, Elizabeth Berg. She’s practically my sister. I’ve known her since I was three. Watch her. She’s feisty.” My mother shakes hands with Brendon, giving her knockout dimpled smile. Z has been staring, mouth hanging open, and just utters “Ooh,” when she shakes his hand. 

My mother is the perfect hostess. She can have an eccentric group of guests, but somehow make every one of them feel special and welcomed. We engaged in small talk during Christmas dinner. Memories of past Christmases when we were children, family traditions, and hopes we had for the new year. It wasn’t til after a few glasses of wine and desserts that my mother started with the more personal questions to Brendon. 

“So, Brendon. You didn’t go back home for Christmas. Why is that?” Denise flashes her sweet smile. I am pretty certain she knows the effect her dimples and white teeth have on people. There is an ease and trusting feeling about her that people open up to. 

“Well. I guess I would call Houston my home. My brothers and sisters live there with their own families. My mom and dad actually live in Hawaii. It’s a little expense to visit them.” Brendon casually replies while taking a forkful of homemade pumpkin pie. 

“Wow! Hawaii? How did they end up there? Must be wonderful.”  My mother sighs and gets this far away look in her glassy eyes. 

“My mother is from there. My dad met her while stationed there. Convinced her to marry him and move to Houston, where he’s from. As soon as I left the nest, they moved back. She never liked the mainland much. My father always compared her to the Lehua tree. Only blooms in Hawaii.” Brendon smiles briefly back at my mother, leans back in his chair, then takes a sip of wine. 

“You seemed to have a sort of exotic look about you.” Z chimes in. “Ow! Ryan! Just making an observation.” She replies after I kicked her under the table. 

“Hey. Y’all, this is all kinda personal. I’m sure he didn’t think he’d be coming over here for an interrogation.” I quipped. 

“I don’t mind. It’s nice to have people interested in getting to know me. Anyway, Dad is Irish. That is where my light and freckled skin in come. Got my Mom’s Pacific Islander good looks. I’m sure the Lord had fun making me. ‘Let’s give him a wide nose, big lips, and white skin.’” Brendon then chuckles to himself. 

“Oh, so do you go to church?” My mother pries. 

“My family is Church of Christ. I attended growing up, but I don’t practice anymore. Long story.” Brendon seems to have shut that topic of discussion down before it had a chance to begin. 

“Neither do I. For personal reasons.” I add. An awkward silence fills the room. Z clears her throat.

“Uh, Ryan. You know what we need to do? Let’s go down to the river! We haven’t done that since High School. It’s like ninety degrees outside. Take a bottle of whiskey, like we used to. Skip stones. What ya think?” Z looks between Brendon and I. 

“I’m up for it.” Brendon answers. “I haven’t seen much else of this town but the police station and the vet clinic. It’d be nice to do some local stuff.”

“Fine with me. Mom, you have any whiskey we can sneak out of the house?” 

“I’ve made a lot of rum cake orders this last week. You can take what’s left over. Ryan, I don’t have to tell you to be careful, right?” My mother cocks a worriedly eyebrow my way. 

“Mom, we ARE the law.” I chuckle. 

Our chairs scrape along the wooden floors as the three of us stand up to head for the front door. Z makes a quick dash into the kitchen followed by my mother. She emerges again with a half bottle of rum and a wicked smile. A flitting of jealousy erupts in my stomach. I resign myself to the thought that it’s highly unlikely Brendon is attracted to me, let alone men. Z should have the opportunity of snatching up a good looking man like Brendon. It’s only natural. 

The order we all climb into my truck proves my theory right. Brendon held the door open, so Z is riding between us. I had left my black felt Stetson on the dash, so being self conscious of my hair, I slipped it on. 

“Y’all ready?” I asked my seat mates. Brendon snorts when he sees the hat. Z giggles too, but reaches up to pull the brim lower over my eyes. Brendon suddenly stops laughing. I tip my brim at them both, and I notice Brendon’s cheeks redden. 

Z is taking a swig of rum before I’m pulled out onto the highway and heading north. She passes the bottle to Brendon, who’s engrossed in the scenery out the passenger window. I notice out of my peripheral vision he's taking little sips, so I’m assuming he’s wanting to slow down. I’m sure he’s feeling the buzz that I do from our dessert wine. 

“Ryan. You promised you’d come see me sing. When are you planning to come?” Z asks in a mildly whining voice. The girly-girl comes out of her when she’s been drinking. 

“What? There’s a club here? A lounge?” Brendon whipped his head around to ask, taking the bottle from Z and taking a hefty swig this time. 

“Well, yes and no. I work at Spencer’s. I’m a singer...and a clothes designer. Denise was wearing one of my first creations. Spencer’s is more of a ‘speakeasy’ since this is a dry county and all.” Z answers matter of factly. 

“You? You work at Spencer’s? Where those other women worked before they died?” Brendon is looking from Z to me. “Stop the truck!” He yells suddenly. 

Fuck. 

“Stop the goddamn truck, Ryan! Now!”  Brendon yells loud enough to make Z jump and the next county hear him. I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop.

Brendon climbs out, cussing as he’s walking into the dust cloud billowing behind us in the road. 

“Wait here.” I tell Z, clambering out of the drivers side and jogging to catch up with him. 

“Hey!” I yell when I catch up to him, grabbing his arm. He whirls around and immediately lays into me. 

“She works at Spencer’s? You, a cop, hangs out with a...a prostitute? What the hell are you thinking being around a woman like that? Do you know—“

“I don’t turn tricks, you stuck up asshole!”  Z didn’t stay in the truck. “As you can tell, there’s not much choice for boarding in this town for a single woman. Plus, it’s the safest place to be, with Spencer always on the premises. Joe and Ryan patrol the area. And lo’ and behold! They aren’t too good to protect the ‘likes of me!’ They are more of a man than you will ever be. I’m sure if I had a penis, I wouldn’t have to work two jobs so I wouldn’t have to sell my body. But what would you ever know of that? Fuck you, and your white male privilege! Ryan, take me home.”

“Now Z, I don’t think he me—“

“Hey! Z!” Brendon is running back up to the truck, where Z is standing next to the drivers side door. Oh hell. These two are like fire and gasoline.  “Move out! Live with Denise or live with Ryan. You know something about what happened to Keltie and Vicky. It’s someone tied to that place.” She stops in her tracks, freezes her actions of getting in the truck. 

“Unless you are my husband or father, you have no right to tell me what to do.” The scariest thing about that response is I hardly saw her mouth or jaw move when she said those words. Z pulls herself into the truck cab using my steering wheel, then slams the rusty door shut with emphasis. 

“You said she’s feisty.” Brendon says to me while shaking his head. 

“Look. She’s had it rough. Ok. It’s not my place to tell you, but she has practically lived with us her whole life. We’ve asked her to move back, to either place. She won’t. She’s a grown woman. And don’t assume you know what she does out there. Hell, we’re not even sure what goes on out there. But Spencer is not a pimp. It’s the woman’s choice. She has chose not to. She’s leaving town soon, for Dallas, sometime before Spring. Just leave her be.” 

“Alright. Alright. Wasn’t my place to say or assume anything. I guess I need to apologize.” Brendon says out loud more to himself than to me. 

“Let me talk to her for a minute. I can get her to calm down. I’m just surprised her anger isn’t directed at me, for once.” I chuckle out loud. But stop short so I don’t meet the fury of Z too. 

Brendon nods, gives a half smile, then walks to the tailgate of the truck. He crosses his arms and leans in the bumper, looking out over the Hill Country behind us. 

I carefully open the driver door to a crying Z. She’s a strong willed woman, so there isn’t a lot of wailing, but her silent tears streaming her cheeks break my heart. I fight the urge to kick the shit out of the jackass who has made her cry. He does want to apologize. 

“Elizabeth. I’m sorry. I don’t think he meant it in the way you understood.” I begin; but Z has looked at me with burning eyes while wiping her cheeks. “He doesn’t understand. And I really do think he means well. He is concerned for your well being, living out there and all that’s happened. But deep down, I think he has a good heart and good intentions for you.” 

“A good heart, maybe. His good intentions surely aren’t for me, Ryan.” Z giggles, then stifles her laughter with a hand, looking at me with a sparkle in her eye. I just stare at her. Has she gone crazy? 

The passenger door opens slowly, revealing a very remorseful Brendon. “I’m sorry, Z. I shouldn’t have made assumptions like that. You aren’t going to hurt me if I climb in the truck now, will you?”

Z turns to look at me, and gives me a quick wink. “Not this time. But you’ve been warned.” She laughs while Brendon climbs back into the truck. 

Feeling certain that Z will not murder him, I climb back into the drivers side. Start the truck up again, shift into first, then proceed on our way to the river. 

Z and Brendon pass the rum back and forth, but the ride the rest of the way there is in silence. By the time we’ve made it to the bank of sand, there is only one swig left for me. We climb out, walking up to the edge, I pick up the first flat stone I see. I skip the stone effortlessly across the water. Counting my skips and watching the ripples turn back into the smooth flow of water. It’s late afternoon by this time, and only have a few hours of daylight left. It’s Z who breaks the reverie. 

“Brendon? Do you have anyone special back in Houston?” I glance over her way to see her grinning from ear to ear back at me. I narrow my eyes at her. Brendon is busy looking around on the sandy ground for a flat rock to skip, and I’m certainly glad he missed this exchange between us. 

“Nope. Don’t want that right now. I’m just starting my career and I’m really hoping to be transferred soon anyway. It would be nice to get out of Texas.”  He finds his rock, and he skips it perfectly across the water. 

“I’ll be moving soon. Thank God. I wish I could convince Ryan to go with me. There would be more—uh—to choose from in Dallas, Ry.” Z smirks at me, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. 

“Mom’s here. My job’s here.” I throw my next stone, which sinks with a ‘kerplunk’. 

“But you could get a law enforcement job anywhere. I’m sure Joe’s letter of recommendation could get you a security job for the pope!” Z laughs at her own joke. Brendon laughs, but I doubt he finds it funny at all. 

“Yeah. Maybe. Never thought of it, really. I’ve always lived here.” Another rock sinks. 

“You need to see the rest of the world, Ryan. At least the part outside of Texas.” Z remarks, looking straight at me with her big grin again. She glances a few times at Brendon, then back at me. She’s not being sly on her suggestions at all. 

“O.k. Time for you to take a wade in the river. Cool down those thoughts of yours.” I reply, swooping down to throw her over my back, then I run out into the water, ankle deep and ruining my boots in the process. 

“Ryan Ross! Put me down! I don’t want to ruin my shoes!”  

I walk her back to the bank, set her back down on her feet. She’s laughing now and shrugging out of her shoes, then capris. I start laughing now too, walk to the hood of my truck to set my hat down. Pulling off my boots, socks, then unhooking my belt, unzipping my slacks, sliding them down.

“Wha-what are you doing?” Brendon has turned to look at me while I’m stripping my slacks off, laying them on the hood of my truck. Standing in my light blue boxers, I then start unbuttoning my white, long sleeved shirt. 

“I don’t want my clothes to get wet.” I reply. At that moment, Z throws her capris and blouse at me, and I see a flash of her in white bra and panties, running into the river. It’s not deep, just waist high in the middle. She shrieks when the cool water splashes her legs. “Just something we did as kids. We leave our underwear on. Come on.” I say as I lay my dress shirt, then my undershirt on the hood of the truck. I jog past him and into the river to splash Z. 

“Uh. No. I’ll pass. Ummm . I’ll sit in the truck and wait.” Brendon seems shocked and frozen in place, then as if shaken awake, he starts for the truck. 

“Hey Bren! It’s no big deal! Come on! It’s really not that cold!” I yell at his back as he’s ignoring me, walking away. Just then, Z tackles me like the start running back and we both plunge into the water. Laughing and gasping as we stand back up, she swipes two huge waves at me. 

“I think he’s either too shy or he’s playing hard to get, Ryan.” Z says in a low voice while laughing. 

“Don’t be stupid, Z. He’s not…”I begin to say then look back at the truck on the sandy bank. Brendon is silhouetted by the orange, yellow and pink setting sun. Standing by the opened truck door, obviously watching us. Since my attention is distracted by Brendon, Z takes the opportunity to knock us both into the cold water again. 

 

*******************

 

We are in the conference room once again. Joe is present and wants an update on our findings. I can tell by his wrinkled brow and crossed arms he’s not happy with what he hears. 

“You’re saying that the knife does belong to Zack, but there were no prints on the handle? AND he came back clean from the polygraph? How?” Joe demands. The plan was to make an arrest after Christmas, and in just a few days, Brendon’s partner from Houston will be joining us. 

“The handle was wiped clean. We know it’s his because he admitted it is. Other than that, we have no proof he killed Vicky. And he did pass the polygraph.” I repeat for the third time that afternoon.

“We need to bring Spencer in for testing, since we have the lie detector. It wouldn’t hurt to test Linda, and Gabriel Saporta too. Since he was having a relationship from the last victim.” Brendon interjects. 

“We have no probable cause to test them. No prints or evidence otherwise to bring them in.” I argue with my new partner. 

“The landlord and landlady of the property. The boyfriend or whatever he was to the last victim. He was the last person she was seen with.” Brendon points his finger down to the file on the table. 

“So, who else shall we test? Me? Gabe is my best friend, maybe I was saving him from years of marital misery? Maybe I hate women? Guess we better get Joe tested. Kenny and Jon too. Hell, Carrie seems shady. Let’s tes—“

“Enough, Ryan!” Joe warns, standing up and slamming his palm down in the desk. 

“Will you excuse my partner and I while we discuss the next course of action, sir?” I ask through gritted teeth. I forcefully slide my metal chair back, interrupting our meeting with a loud screech from the floor. I’ve had enough of Brendon’s suspicions on every single person town and this damn department. 

I walk out of the conference room with Brendon on my heels. I know the others have heard the shouting, because they have all stopped to watch us walk past the groups of desks. Kenny leans over to whisper to Jon, which in turn causes him to chuckle and cover his smile with a fist. 

I shove the door open as hard as I can, causing it to slam into the brick wall. To relieve stress, and to take most of my anger out on the door and not Brendon. I take a few more steps outside into the bright sunlight, also taking deep breaths to match. I hear the door shut close, so I turn around to state my case. 

“Look here, you ca—-“ I see a flash of his chocolate eyes looking into mine, then to my mouth. My words and lips are suddenly covered by his. His hands have grabbed the sides of my face to pull me to him. To hold me there. I can smell his woodsy aftershave, and feel the five o’clock shadow already growing in, brushing against my nose and lips. I’m paralyzed. Why? Why is he kissing me? 

My lack of involvement must have broken the spell on him. He releases me. Stepping backwards, with one hand up. Stepping away (too far away) from me. I hear him say, “I’m sorry. I thought...I shouldn’t have.” His reddened face comes into focus. His eyes looking everywhere but at mine. Is he embarrassed? Ashamed? He's going to leave. He keeps stepping back. Away. Why? 

“Come here.” I breathe out, rushing forward a few steps to him, grabbing the back of his head, pulling his full pouty lips to mine.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupid Cupid-Songwriters: Howard Greenfield and Neil Sedaka.


	12. We Belong Together

The golden morning sunrise is seeping around the hotel’s curtains, casting little illumination into the room. Their legs are tangled together, laying on their sides, facing one another. The kisses are long, slow, methodical. Hands are rubbing bare chests, with soft moans emitting from both of them. They are also sharing one untucked crisp, white hotel sheet, haphazardly draped over their waists.

Brendon slowly trails his hand down Ryan’s narrow chest and onto his hard cock. Taking a grip of the shaft, letting his thumb swipe over the slit. Ryan groans, opening heavy lidded honey eyes obscured by chestnut waves, to gaze at the slitted coffee browns staring back. A little smirk flashes over Brendon’s red and swollen lips between kisses.  He definitely enjoyed that reaction. 

“God, your cock is huge.” Brendon breathes into Ryan’s mouth as he starts a slow pumping motion. “I want to suck it.” Ryan’s eyes roll back into his skull as he closes them. Pulling Brendon’s head closer to his mouth for a passionate kiss. 

Brendon tosses the sheet off of them both, rolling Ryan onto his back, straddling his knees while stroking his dick. A bead of pre-cum  has formed. Brendon’s eyes widen at the sight, then smiles. He bends down and takes the head of Ryan’s bulging and pink cock in his mouth, licking and kissing as he tastes him. He looks up at Ryan, rubbing the other hand up his chest. “I want you to give me more.”

Brendon then slides his lithe body down the length of Ryan’s, fitting between his legs with easier access to Ryan’s enormous dick. He’s drooling as he takes him in his mouth, down to the bottom of his shaft where his musky pubic hair starts. Brendon pauses, eyes watering from the length; hollows his cheeks—sucking as he brings his mouth back to the slit. He swipes his tongue into it, but lightly. Ryan hisses and bucks his hips up, as Brendon strokes him. 

“I've never seen such a fucking perfect cock.” Brendon takes Ryan’s dick into his mouth again, starts bobbing his head slowly, using his hand also. He’s not meaning to drool this much on Ryan’s dick, but it’s obvious he’s relishing the slick glide. Brendon literally can’t wait to have his way with this man. 

Ryan’s breathing starts to increase. Brendon feels his thighs tighten, so he stops. Ryan moans again, burying his fists deeper into Brendon’s dark hair. Brendon is licking his shaft, smiling to himself, with a spark in his eye. 

“Not yet.” He breathes onto Ryan’s cock. He kisses the head and makes his way slowly back to Ryan’s mouth, leaving a trail of kisses on his chest in his wake. Looking into Ryan’s eyes, he whispers, “You’re not coming until I’m in you.”

Ryan growls low in his throat, pulling Brendon’s head closer to his for more of his mouth. He can taste his own cock, which makes him even harder, if that is possible. “I want to feel you come in me.” Ryan answers between deep, passionate kisses. 

Brendon reaches for the vaseline jar on top of the nightstand. He kisses Ryan, then breaking it to move his mouth to Ryan’s neck, and collarbone. Leaving a wet, hot trail down the center of his chest, his abdomen. Stopping at his bellybutton. The head of Ryan’s dick is just below his chin. He purposely exhales hot air onto his cock as he’s moving back to his previous position between his legs. With the tip of his tongue, Brendon licks his scrotum before slurping one, then the other ball into his mouth. Ryan bucks involuntarily again, as Brendon pushes his hip back down. He places one hand under his left knee and raises his foot til it’s flat on the mattress, then pushing it to loll to the side. He lightly flutters his dick with his tongue as he does the same to his right leg. Brendon slowly plants light kisses on the right inside thigh, til he has Ryan’s cock in his face, but that’s not what he wants to pay attention to next. 

Brendon swirls the tip of his hot tongue over Ryan’s entrance. Ryan jerks from the sensation at first, but is now moaning and crossing  his long arms over his eyes, mouth open, breathing deep. Brendon pops the lid off the jar. Scoops two fingers in for a glob, dropping the jar and lid with his other hand over the side of the bed.  He’s slowly rubbing the ointment over Ryan’s entry. Ever so slowly, he slips the tips of his fingers. 

“Fuck—you’re tight.” Brendon breathes against Ryan’s thigh. Ryan’s legs tremble slightly, then he is pushing himself slowly down onto Brendon’s fingers, stopping with a gasp and tremble every half inch until all of the two fingers have disappeared inside him. As Bren pulls out slowly, Ryan raises his hips up. Brendon feels his own cock leak with pre-cum as he realizes Ryan is fucking himself on his hand.

Brendon breaks into a malicious smirk, turns his hand til he’s palm up, then slowly crooks his fingers. Ryan’s back arches immediately in response, grasping the top sheet with his hands on either side of him, white knuckles exposed. Brendon’s free hand strokes Ryan’s cock a few times, causing guttural noises to escape his mouth. 

Brendon eases his fingers out, making Ryan whine in protest. Brendon sits up onto his knees. He started stroking his own swollen cock absentmindedly while gazing at Ryan’s lean body, relaxed and pliant. Ryan’s eyes are pleading to him for pleasure and release. Brendon’s cock is starting to throb, so he has to stop before he comes from looking at him.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers. He grabs Ryan’s waist and pulls him down closer to him. Ryan’s legs open wider and wraps around him. He aligns his cock, slowly thrusting forward and widening Ryan’s entry. Ryan’s mouth drops open, and he presses his head back into the pillow. When Brendon slowly pulls out, Ryan moans. A low, animalistic sound that Brendon has never heard.

“That sound. That face you make when I slide my dick in you.” Brendon mumbles as he’s picking up a rhythm in his thrusts. “So fucking beautiful.” Ryan reaches up to pull Brendon to his mouth. To muffle the noises escaping his chest. To stop Brendon from speaking. There’s desperation in his kisses. A confession. Surrendering power. A claim on a man he barely knows. 

At that moment, Ryan gives up control of himself and his body. He gives up his only possession. Himself. He reaches down with his right hand, stroking out his orgasm. Pushing himself onto Brendon with his left arm above his head, palm flat and elbow braced against the wooden headboard. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth opened and gasping, “Oh God. Bren—don.” Streaming thick come onto his pumping fist, back arched and meeting with Brendon’s thrusts. 

The visual of Ryan’s wanton orgasm is bringing Brendon closer to his own demise. But he’s not finished with him yet. 

Brendon stops his thrusting, pulling out of Ryan with a deep guttural sigh. He takes Ryan’s comed hand, slowly sucking and licking each finger, never breaking eye contact. Ryan reaches for the back of Brendon’s head. Pulling him down for an open mouth kiss. Tasting his own bitter-saltiness in Brendon’s mouth. Tongues sensually gliding and sharing Ryan’s iridescent come. 

Brendon then places Ryan’s hand around his cock. The come left in his palm becomes their lubrication. Brendon, sitting on his knees, using Ryan’s hand and come; pleasuring himself. Eyes furrowed closed, head back, and mouth opened with heavy moans and deep breathing is reawakening a burn in Ryan’s stomach. 

Brendon’s eyes flash open, pupils blown; cheeks burning with a sudden blush of scarlet. The look on his face is one of primal want. 

“I need to fuck you, now!” He pushes Ryan’s narrow waist down and to the side. Half twisting his upper torso, causing his top knee to bend. Brendon wastes no time pushing his come coated cock into Ryan’s ass; bucking hard, slow but with emphasis. Leaning forward onto his two arms, while driving into Ryan forcefully while on his knees, he dips his head down to lick Ryan’s lips. He reaches down between a groaning Ryan’s legs to stroke his hard dick with his right hand. 

“You like this, don’t cha, baby?” Brendon sighs into Ryan’s ear. Ryan nods his head eagerly, biting his bottom lip; grabbing onto Brendon’s waist with one hand, pulling into him harder with every thrust. Ryan’s mouth falls open into an O, his breathing becomes irregular. 

“No. Wait.” Brendon croaks out, suddenly withdrawing his dick from where the two men are connected. He then turns Ryan over onto his stomach, lifting his ass up with one arm around his waist to get him sloped, but on his knees. Burying his cock again into Ryan, leaning forward to wrap the other arm around his waist to reach his swollen dick. He’s thrusting much slower now, but at this angle the head is slightly nudging Ryan’s prostate, sending shockwaves through him. The slow strokes of his hand is causing Ryan to become dizzy. The hot-moist breathes on his back, the slapping of their skin prove to be too much. It’s a sensation overload on Ryan’s brain, and he feels himself spilling over Brendon’s hand with loud moans and “Oh Gods.” His knees start to buckle and shake. Even with Brendon’s arm around his waist, it’s not enough to support his knees. Ryan collapses. 

Ryan on his stomach, head turned to the side. Brendon is kissing the side of his mouth through his heavy gasps. He is also sinfully smiling down at his partner. “Give me a sec,” Ryan breathes out while lifting a hand. This sends a chuckling fit through Brendon. 

“You can’t be done already?” He teasingly whispers into Ryan’s ear. 

Ryan moans, closes his eyes, and rolls over onto his back. By now all sheets and pillows are on the hotel floor.  The crisp, white, top sheet is now wrinkled and spotted with come. Brendon lifts Ryan’s left leg, placing the knee over his shoulder. He turns to rub and kiss the calf that’s there. He pulls where the leg is bent at Ryan’s waist. Bringing his target closer. Ryan’s right leg lolls over, knee bent. Giving Brendon plenty of access to everything he could ever want. 

Brendon rubs the come from his hand that Ryan left from his second orgasm over his entrance. Kneeling, he sinks his cock into Ryan again. Very slowly, guiding his dick in and out. He’s still giving Ryan a chance to come down from his second, while containing his own eagerness to come. He wants Ryan to know he can be gentlemanly. Moving timidly—softly. He’s also taking in the view of Ryan, breathing deep and slow, the glisten of sweat on his upper lip, chest, and abdomen. Enjoying the change of pace. Brendon leans forward slightly, which causes him to hit Ryan’s prostate again. Ryan gasps, grabbing to hold onto the back of Brendon’s ass. Pulling him into Ryan harder, but still a slower pace. 

Ryan’s still semi-hard, but there is no way he can come again. He’s enjoying the electric pulses from Brendon’s cock hitting him just right. And he’s making damn sure he doesn’t stop. 

“You’re gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous,” Brendon breathes out. He drops Ryan’s leg so his lips can meet Ryan’s. He closes his eyes and feels the tingle in his lower abdomen. Ryan’s hand moves from his ass to his back, then up to his neck, pressing Brendon onto him further. He other hand rakes down his back, while his legs tighten around his waist. 

“You’re mine,” Brendon whispers into his ear. White sparks begin to form behind his eyes. 

 

“Ahhh. What—the—“ Brendon mutters as his eyes pop open and his own back arching, gripping a pillow and starched, white sheets. Uncontrollably spilling hot come onto himself inside his boxers. He lies motionless in his hotel bed, catching his breath. Obviously wrecked. But also confused. It was so vivid; and also surreal. He can still feel the ghost of Ryan’s kiss on his lips from earlier. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We Belong Together-Songwriter: Ritchie Valens.


	13. Dear Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (late) Birthday to my co-creator, DeedeeLauren.

August 31, 1958

  
  
  
  


Dear Diary,

I have met HIM! The one I  know I’m going to marry! Well, we’ll get married once he divorces his wife. 

He says it’s basically over anyway. No more sex. No communication. I honestly don’t know why he doesn’t leave her now, he’s so miserable. And she is so cruel. I would never treat him the way she does. She basically ignores him, sits around the house, letting their baby cry. She won’t cook or clean. Tells him all the time how tired she is; stays in her pajamas, eating bon-bons, watching soap operas. I tell him time and time again all the things she’s doing wrong. I’d be better. 

My day would consist of getting up before him, getting dressed, putting on my face. No house coats or rollers on me in the mornings. I’d be put together and ready by the time he woke up! I’d make him breakfast every morning, and have his coffee ready. As soon as he left for work, I’d start cleaning the house and preparing his lunch. Depending on his work load if he’d be able to have lunch at home or if I would take it to him. I wouldn’t mind. Dinner would be set on the table for him as soon as he got home. Fresh-cooked and homemade. None of those frozen, TV dinners. All he would have to worry about is relaxing. Anything for my Angel. 

He’s my Angel. He saved me in the nick of time. I was getting depressed, wondering if I should tuck my tail between my legs, and go home. He came into Spencer’s with a group of friends. I was “bought” to sing and give a little dance to his group. One of the guys started ranting that I should be giving everyone a blowjob, and wanting to start a money pool. The next thing I know, Gabe, I think his name is, groped my breasts. I slapped him across the face, which made this creep even more angry. He started calling me a whore, and that’s when my Angel stepped in. The other guys dragged out their drunk friend, but he stayed behind. He kept apologizing profusely, saying over and over how much of a pig his friend is and how he is completely opposite. That he tags along to make sure no one does anything stupid. He actually gave a kiss on my cheek before he left and said he’s never seen anyone so pretty in this town before. From that time on, he came by every night. He'd pay me to just sit and talk. Said he just wanted a friendly face and sweet voice since things at home weren’t going well. 

It’s been three weeks since, and I’m in love! I haven’t had the heart to tell him he’s my first. He probably thinks I’ve done way more before, with other men who’ve come into Spencer’s. But it’s never been sex. I only gave did oral once, which was last night, and the guy puked on me! It was embarrassing and disgusting. I must’ve been doing something wrong for him to get sick like that. I have duly noted not to ever do it again! Soon, I will not have to work at Spencer’s anymore! 

Anyway, it wasn’t like I thought it would be. Of course all girls have some sort of romantic idea of how their first time. Usually on a wedding night. But he said he loves me. He said it was love at first sight for him! We snuck away from Spencer’s. He said he wanted to go gaze at the stars under a blanket. We made love in the backseat of his car, well, it was his work car; out by some noisy Ajax pump jack in the boonies. Not ideal, but I wanted to show him that I would do anything for him. Anything. Which is a whole lot more than his wife. I know my parents wouldn’t be happy with me if they knew the things that I’ve been doing at Spencer’s. We will never have to tell them that. As far as they are concerned, I worked as a maid in a boarding house where I lived. 

He says he needs a little more time, then he’ll tell his wife he doesn’t love her anymore and will leave. He says as soon as the divorce is finalized, he’ll marry me the next day! Who would’ve thought I’d find the love of my life in this town? I can’t wait to take him home as my husband! I’m sure my Mo—

  
  
  


Z slowly closes the black bound diary, brushing away a single tear that is rolling down her cheek with her thumb. She tucks the diary away between her mattresses, the same manner in which she found it in Keltie’s bedroom. She turns off her ceramic vase bedside lamp, tucks herself down under the wool floral quilt, and silently cries herself to sleep. 

 


	14. Breathless

He always sent shivers down my spine. From how he looks at me across the room, to his kisses. Tonight it’s worse. 

His hot breath and wet kisses on the back of my neck causes my thoughts to blur and lose concentration. I really don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to fight off the urge to take him on the conference table. 

“Brendon, come on. You wanted to create this crime board. You aren’t helping me with what you’re doing.” I shrug my shoulders to my neck, bumping him away from me with my elbow. He places both hands on my hips, pulling me back to him and chuckles in my ear.  

“You’re going to waste this opportunity on work. Ryan, I’m disappointed in you.” Brendon turns my head over my shoulder, towards him, placing his lips on mine. He instantly fills my mouth with his tongue and deep kisses while I lay my head back on his shoulder. My mind blacks out and I’m hyper aware of his musky scent and the taste of coffee. I’m faintly aware of his hands traveling underneath my uniformed shirt, rubbing my chest and abs. My resolve is weakening and I sigh out loud at the thought of touching him. 

This kicks Brendon into motion, turning me around to face him, and backing me into the table. We are kissing again, long and deep. I sit on the table when he gives me a gentle bump, feeling his lips turn into a smile. He spreads my knees open, steps between them and gently pries them wider with a wiggle of his hips. The look in his slitted, chocolate eyes are something between mischief and predatory. My stomach flips at the thought of him having total control. His right hand goes to my throat, and my breath hitches. His pupils dilate as his hand travels to my jaw, and he leans in to kiss me harder. 

A voice in my head reminds me we are at work. It’s after hours, the building is locked up, and it’s late. On a Friday night too-so I doubt anyone would come back here. The thought of getting caught is still enough caution for my hearing to kick in. No other noises besides our heavy breathing and lips planting desperate kisses on one another’s necks. My hands have developed a mind of their own as they pull his shirt loose from his slacks. Traveling under his shirt, up his back to grab the back of his hair. I tug his head back, lean forward to bite at his neck while one leg wraps around him. My other hand has traveled down his trousers, gripping his perfectly round ass, pulling him even closer to me. I’ve let go of his hair, and he’s pausing; staring at my face with what looks like fire burning behind his eyes. He’s clenched his jaw, breathing hard. He suddenly reaches for my hips, pulling me to him as he grinds our crotches together. 

“I want to fuck you.” He breathes against my mouth, before teasing my lips open with the tip of his tongue. 

I’ve always been the one in control. I’ve always been the dominant one in any sexual relationship. Whether it had been David or William; I called the shots. I brought them to their knees to suck my cock. But the thought of Brendon having total control of me, being inside me, made my cock rock hard. I almost came at the thought of him sliding his dick in me, gripping my thighs in desperation, watching the sweat form above his red, full lips. I’ve realized I’ve been biting my own and I taste a drop of metallic.

I’ve reached around the front of his pants, tugging his zipper down. I pull the folds apart, pulling his waistband down to release his hard cock. I slowly start stroking him, and he responds with a guttural groan. My stomach flips again, and then I realize I’m on my knees. Brendon has sat in the chair that got bump out of the way earlier, watching me swirl the head of his dick with my tongue. I have the sudden urge to taste him, as I bobbed my head down, circling my hand along his shaft. He audibly sighs, leaning his head back as I come back up, releasing his cock from my mouth with a pop. Pre-cum has formed, and my tongue licks along his slit. He growls, placing both of his hands in my hair. I can tell he’s refraining from pushing my head down forcibly. I move my hands to his hips, hold my breath, and take him down til his dick hits the back of my throat. He groans, jerks up slightly, then pulls my head up. He’s breathing hard as he brings my mouth to his. He must’ve been close.

“Brendon—Please.” I beg him between kisses. I’m suddenly surprised this statement has come out of my mouth. My mind kicks in too late with alarm at what I’ve just asked. I’ve never done this. But I’ve also never been filled with this desire or want for another man. I need him in me. I need to feel one with him. Connected and whole. With him. 

Before I could process my thoughts, Brendon is standing me up. He’s unbuttoning and unzipping my pants. I’m pulling his starched, white shirt off his shoulders while I kick off my boots, and stepping out of my trousers. He’s unbuttoning my khaki deputy’s shirt, tugging it off my long arms. He’s kissing me, backing me into the table again. This time, I lay back, as he steps between my legs. He bends my knees back and wide, with my feet on the edge as he kneels down. I feel his tongue flicking on my entrance. It’s not as odd or foreign as I thought, just as he enters his first finger. 

“Relax.” He whispers as he licks at my balls. His other hand rubbing lovingly on the inside of my thigh. I unclench my ass, take a deep breath; blowing out slowly as I feel him move his finger in and out of me. He’s licking around my asshole, and I suddenly feel stretched a little more. He’s entered two fingers in me. Ever so slowly. He somehow knows I’ve never done this and he’s trying to make it as bearable for me as he can. 

I can’t say that I’ve never done this. I’ve tried to finger myself once, when I was seeing David. I was curious on what it’s like for him. Is it as enjoyable as it seems with his moans? As soon as I felt a burn and slight hurt, I stopped. So far, this hasn’t hurt. It feels damn good. 

Brendon stands up, wrapping one leg around his waist while he holds the other. He kisses my knee, and I can see his eyes, his pupils are blown as he looks at me. I’m holding onto the edge of the table with one hand, his waist with the other as he aligns the head of his cock to my hole. He nods his head slightly, like he’s answered an internal question. He pushes forward slightly, holding onto my leg and waist. I feel the head of his dick thrust in, and he stops. He’s blowing out a long breath I didn’t hear him inhale. He seems to be willing every muscle in his body to freeze while I adjust. It wasn’t terrible. It stings and is surprising, but not unbearable. He moves in a little more and the stinging intensifies. He’s noticed the surprised look on my face and he stops, though I know by his eyes it’s killing him. 

“You ok? Wanna stop?” He whispers to me as he’s bent forward, kissing my lips. A familiar warm-fuzzy feeling enters my chest. I ignore it. Push it away. 

“More, Bren.” I pull on his waist so more of him slides in me. I gasp at the sudden burning fire and intruding feeling, but at the same time my body betrays me and I buck back onto him. A dark cloud covers his eyes as he thrusts forward again, forcing me to tighten my grip on both the table and him so I don’t slide off the other side. 

Just when I think I can’t go through with this, Brendon angles his hips. His next thrust sends white dots behind my eyes and a sensation through my body I’ve never experienced. I can’t breathe. I open my mouth for air, just as he sends the sensation through all my limbs again. I imagine this is what it feels like to be struck by lightning. Electricity thrusted into your spine, sent down to every limb and bursting through your fingers and toes, and out through the top of your head. Before I can catch my breath, protest, or scream; I’m slammed with it again. My mouth is open and I’m struggling for oxygen, but hoping at the same time he doesn’t stop. God please, don’t let him stop, I need this. I need him. 

“You feel fucking—ahh.” Brendon says into my mouth. He’s trying to kiss me and is also trying to breath. He thrusts again, but grabs my cock and is pumping me hard and fast. My brain goes all white, electric, and I finally have my release. I can finally moan. I can finally get air; but there is an animalistic sound in the room. I turn my head to the side to scan the floor, looking for an injured dog. The noise is escaping from my throat. Brendon has slowed his thrusts, coming to a stop while kissing my neck. I then realize all my muscles are flexed and rigid. One by one, I relax and feel them soften as my breathing slows back to normal. I turn my head back to look at Brendon. He’s still bent over me, closer now that our noses are almost touching, smiling and pushing my sweat drenched hair out of my eyes. He slowly pulls himself out of me. Again, stinging—discomfort, and a feeling of vulnerability. 

He steps back, and I sit up. He’s looking around the room, on the ground where all of the working materials have ended up along with our clothes. He spots his underwear and slacks, stepping into them and pulling them on. I reach for mine also, not knowing what to say to break the awkward silence. It’s that moment I notice the sound of a pounding fist on the lobby’s glass doors. 

My first thought is Gabe. He’s seen my truck, he wants to talk. I grab the shirt nearest me, half running out the conference door; hoping Brendon has the sense to continue getting dressed and to stay in the room. I’m ten steps away from the door, when I notice the man cupping his face against the glass. He’s tall, sandy-blonde, swooped hair. Not Gabe. I’m unlocking the door, ready to explain that we are closed, this better be an emergency, and then notice the sleeves of the shirt I’m wearing are starched white. I look down to see my socked feet. I’m suddenly very grateful that this man isn’t Gabe. 

“Hey. We’re locked up for the night. Is this an emergency?” I ask impatiently while buttoning up Brendon’s shirt the rest of the way. Maybe he’ll think there are showers here. 

“Dallon?” Brendon exclaims from over my shoulder, while jogging up next to me. He’s holding my boots in one hand, my brown uniformed shirt in the other. He’s fully dressed, sans shirt. At least he has an undershirt on. I don’t; as I quickly unbutton his, exposing my thin and bare upper torso to trade with him. I’ve stepped aside for Dallon, who has yet to say anything; and is just staring at both of us. 

“We drove in early. Checked into the hotel; but couldn’t find you. Patrick wanted a quick debrief before tomorrow. I thought I’d check here to see if you were working late.” Dallon answers in a matter-of-fact monotone. He has no expression. I can’t read him and it’s making me nervous as hell. I’ve stopped making eye contact, turned my back to him. Brendon looks from Dallon to me and back. Confusion? Embarrassment? 

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’s looking me straight in the eye, but I can’t hold contact right now. We’ve been caught. Adrenaline has already started creeping into my veins, the butterflies in my stomach, I’m struggling with the fight or flight survival response in my body. I’m failing miserably with the cold sweating and forced indifference. Brendon leans forward and pecks my check. Which has shocked me into a frozen statuette. Just staring at him and an occasional blink is all I can manage. He gives a shy smile while donning his trenchcoat and fedora, brushing past me out the door. I hear their Oxfords clicking further away into the parking lot, into the darkness. I lock the door, and turn back around; heading between the desks in the main office, back to the conference room. 

The scissors, tape, pens, photos; all neatly placed back onto the table. A pen, laying beside the legal pad. He wrote down the phone number to the hotel, and his room number. Information I already had since the first day he stepped into this building. Into my life. 

I sit in the nearest chair, slip my boots on, grab my keys off the table, and stand to leave. I look for my coat and hat; can’t find them. They must be at my desk. Exhale. Sit back down in the chair and place my head in my hands.

What the hell have I just done? 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breathless-Songwriter: Otis Blakwell


End file.
